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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27917452">Per aspera ad Proxima Centauri</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otik2018/pseuds/Otik2018'>Otik2018</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Third Star (2010)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Angst, Cancer, Death, Disability, Drugs, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Love/Hate, M/M, Medical Conditions, Smoking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:41:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>87,755</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27917452</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otik2018/pseuds/Otik2018</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He goes out into the courtyard, gazing at the clear sky hanging over him, covered with stars, looking for either the sad corpses of colliding galaxies "Antenna", or the gas nebula "Hand of God" under a long groan of sad night, as if the universe itself reveals all the lies of expectations, and mercilessly flickering, like a repeated new star, the monstrous in its idle vain thought of some incomprehensible possibility of the miraculous mystery of death, resurrection and eternal life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James Kimberly Griffith/Miles, James Kimberly Griffith/Original Female Character(s), James Kimberly Griffith/Sherlock Holmes, James Kimberly Griffith/original male character, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. One burning supernova</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/722389">Per aspera ad Proxima Centauri</a> by Dmitry Otesanek.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Okay, at first - this is not my own work, I've been just a co-worker and friend of the author; at second - English is not my mother's tongue, so if you will notice any mistakes feel free to point at 'em.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>I. One burning supernova. </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>It's not autumn yet!</p><p>If I endure</p><p>The sadness of the past</p><p>how autumn endures puddles,</p><p>I know: tomorrow's "better" will come soon</p><p>I'll take hundreds of plans</p><p>For my tomorrow: nothing is too late.</p><p>My coffin is still rustling in the forest.</p><p>It's still a tree.</p><p>It nurses the nests.</p><p>(c) Frantisek Grubin</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>September 2014, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>- Jamie, who would have a thought, - a tall and sickly pale young man says quietly, and shivers chilly despite the warm weather, - who would have thought ...</p><p>He frowns and runs his bandaged hand over a cheap gravestone, smudging a snow-white whrapping on pollen-covered granite, carefully places a cigarette between two wreaths, leans against a red oak tree and lights a cigarette, not taking his eyes off the grave.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Here rests </em>
</p><p>
  <em>best friend and true winner - </em>
</p><p>
  <em>James Kimberly Griffith </em>
</p><p>
  <em>09/06/1981 - 09/16/2010 </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Do not go gentle into that good night </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Old age should burn and rave at close of day </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Rage, rage against the dying of the light </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Though wise men at their end </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Know dark is right </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Because their words had forked no lighting they </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Do not go gentle into that good night. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>- Who would have thought ... - the visitor repeats in bewilderment, looking sadly at the tombstone for the last time, near which stands a tiny figure of Darth Vader in the brown dress of Obi-Wan Kenobi, and walks away pensively, hunched over his shoulders and biting his lower lip, still bitter from strong cigarettes.</p><p>
  <strong> September 2007, Pembrokeshire, Barafundle-bay. </strong>
</p><p>An usually deserted and silent beach of Barafundle Bay is voiced by the joyful screams of four guys playing frisbee: always disheveled Davey Norton, prim owner of curly blond hair Miles Clavell in the invariably white T-shirt, plump bearded Bill McKensie and James in a wet pink shirt clinging to his piny but flexible body.</p><p>- Catch it, you fagot! - laughs Clavell, launching a flying disk at Jim. He chukcles in response, choking with laughter, running and happiness, and jumps high to catch the toy, but prushing like a tank Davey falls on him, and they both fall on the coastline; a fan of salty spray soars like a wet, transparent fireworks into the air and immediately crumbles back.</p><p>- Fuck! - James's face is distorted with pain: somehow he manages to hit his hip against the hidden in the sand cobblestone turned by the waters of the Celtic Sea to amazing smoothness.</p><p>- Jim, are you okay? - McKenzie rolls off his friend so as not to put his weight on him, rises to his feet and shakes off his jeans and a yellow T-shirt covered with wet grains of sand.</p><p>- Yes, yes, I'm fine, - Griffith lies and grimaces rubbing his bruised limb, feeling a painful lump pouring under his fingers, pulling on the light fabric of linen pants, and crookedly grins at his own weakness when Bill and Milo grabs him under the arms, helping him up under rhe guffaw of "what a sack you are, pal".</p><p>- Sack of shit , - assent Davey and immediately gets a tangible jolt under the ribs from Griffith, laughing through the tears that came through, awkwardly jumping on his left leg.</p><p>- He also roars, jeez, - McKenzie giggles without malice, adjusting the curly hair, which is mercilessly fluttered by the sea wind, - wiener of a life.</p><p>- Winner of a life maybe?</p><p>- That's what I'm saying. Wiener of a life.</p><p>- Lord, go fuck yourself already, huh? - Jim snorts, smiling broadly at his friend, and the whole company heads to the tent to sweeten the pill to the injured Griffith with a couple of cans of beer, baked potatoes, turkey sandwiches and a good old joint under the heavy breath of the sea and the plaintive cry of seagulls seeing off a hot August day.</p><p>- Stop, we need to take a photo when we will see that you are hugging men! - grins Milo and, having pulled out his adored "Quick Pod" from the tent, returns to the ranks and takes a group selfie, - now not a single asshole will say that I'm lying when I say that Jimbo is a fagot.</p><p>- It is better to be gay by orientation than a fag in fact, - Jim does not remain in debt.</p><p>- Nice work you did, you're gonna to go far, kid, - Davy snorts, gently lowering James, who fell in a frisbee fight onto the mat.</p><p>- With a thousand lies And a good disguise Hit 'em right between the eyes Hit 'em right between the eyes...</p><p>- A lousy choice of soundtrack, Chewbacca. As always, - slapping Griffith on the shoulder, reclining on an awkward blanket with flowers, and Bill puffing, Milo squats down and turns the firebrands with a stick, fanning the fire.</p><p>- If you criticize - suggest an alternative then, - Davey twitches with his shoulder, fishing vegetables and foil from his backpack, whose rustle reminds Jamie of either the bombardment of Icarus II by the solar wind, or the work of the Enterprise's warp core.</p><p>- Ho-ro the reichenbach, the reichenbach in the valley-oh ...</p><p>- What is the waterfall in the cheese? Milo, if you don't know how to do it yourself - teach another, - smiling to the laughter of the "Reverend James" Chewie, who burst into the his beer jar, Griffith rolls his eyes and throws potatoes into the fire, - just to play it off that you just came from abroad ... "Rattln 'bog", not "reichenbach". Ho-ro the <em>rattlin 'bog. </em></p><p>- I ... - Clavell stutters, wrying a disgruntled, haughty face, but irritated Bill interrupts him with the continuation of the song, and now all four are tearing the night apart with a discordant but cheerful chorus, shouting over each other, the chatter of crickets and the rustle of dry grass:</p><p>— Now in the bog there was a tree,</p><p>A rare tree, a rattlin' tree;</p><p>The tree in the bog,</p><p>And the bog down in the valley-oh…</p><p>Under the competition of the guys who quickly blurted out the last twelve-line verse and did not get confused, smiling almost to his ears, James twirls a snow-white feather with a black spot in his hands - smooth, fibrous, smelling of fish and the sky, with pleasure inhales the delightfully fresh scent of the sea, allowing him to the edges fill each alveolus of the lungs, and looks fascinated at the welcoming flickering luminaries, myriads of sparkles strewn with the blue-black dome of the sky.</p><p>
  <em>Van Buuren Supernova. Altarf. Kaus Australis. Pollux. Deneb. Apodis. Canis Majoris. </em>
</p><p>- Sie ist der hellste Stern von allen, - all of a sudden, Griffith begins to bass to himself, growling diligently at [r] sound, - und wird nie vom Himmel fallen...</p><p>- Well, you turned it down, - Dave smiles, - Fritzes are the last thing i've been expected.</p><p>- If you criticize, suggest. Again.</p><p>The firewood of a small fire crackles merrily and unexpectedly rhythmically, and it seems that fire is dancing in a measured beat; from a particularly bright flash, the eyelids close by themselves - only the heart is vigilant - and it seems to James that this is not a tree at all, but someone invisible and imperceptible beating a tap among the stars, overshadowing Alpha and Beta Centauri, and from this transit his heart begins to pound on hysterically wrong, fast and torn, even tears come to his eyes - no, it's just smoke - and it becomes <em>so hard</em> in his chest ...</p><p>Holding his breath and immediately exhaling deeply, Griffith quickly wipes his cheeks and takes a roll of hashish from Milo and, cradling his aching thigh, takes several deep puffs in a row to fall into a slight forgetfulness and chase away the bad omen, which made his head spin and unpleasantly sweating palms.</p><p>- ... That her dark hair</p><p>would weave a snare</p><p>that I might one day rue, - the measured melody of Bill, who has already managed to let a good joint of Bill picking firebrands, pours into my ear - acrid smoke sticks around him with the smell of damp and dried grass, soothes, hugs, hides from - <em>unfair , dishonest</em> - pearl spitters, and Jim  just can not stand: abruptly sitting down, he breaks the dense veil of smog with his body and, stretching out his hands to the fire, unbends his frozen fingers, feeling the colossal onslaught of the sky that has become hostile: <em>but what is wrong?</em></p><p>- I saw the danger and I passed along the enchanted way...</p><p>- The Queen of hearts</p><p>still making tarts</p><p>and I'm not making hay, - picks up sharply sad Milo, - on a quiet street where all ghosts meet</p><p>I saw her walking now...</p><p>- When the night has come</p><p>And the land is dark</p><p>And the moon is the only light we'll see</p><p>No I won't be afraid,</p><p>no I won't be afraid</p><p>Just as long as you stand, stand by me</p><p>And darlin', darlin', stand by me,</p><p>oh now now stand by me</p><p>Stand by me, stand by me...</p><p>
  <strong>September 2007, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole </strong>
</p><p>The ointment which smells pungently of pine and the screwdriver cocktail, successfully stolen from dad, burns the skin unpleasantly, makes the elastic bandage prickly and his hands sticky, and Griffith, grimacing with disgust, pulls on his pants and diligently washes his hands with lavender soap.</p><p>- Jimmy! - the cheerful cry of Chloe is interrupted by the ringing twitter of Clem and Maddy, coming from the front garden.</p><p>- What? - James responds just as loudly and, wiping his wet palms on his shirt, stumbles out of the bathroom, grimacing with every step, when the movement in the joint is accompanied by clicking and crunching - it doesn't hurt, but it's still not pleasant.</p><p>- Bring more containers from the kitchen, please!</p><p>- And what about fried nails? - grunting, Griffith climbs into a chair and takes out from the sideboard a few baskets made in the days when he was a little boy; an old memory immediately appears in front of his eyes as a picture: in the eighty-fifth or sixth year, grandmother sits on the porch and, singing "Dafydd y Garreg Wen", weaves baskets of willow vine, which the grandfather, now smoking cigarettes and "fooling" tomatoes in the garden, cut 'em off by the river and set it to soak a few days ago.</p><p>There are a lot of apples this year: red, green, and yellow; so much that if one makes jam out of them and distribute to every resident of Stackpole, then at least half of the population of their little town would not be short of a viscous delicacy all winter. Griffith, straightening his hat and grabbing an armful of braids so as to look at his feet - it he didn't want to skip a step and crash down the ground wet after the morning rain - descends from the sun-drenched porch covered with leaves and wanders into the front garden, where Chloe stands on a stepladder and collects harvest, and Clemens and Maddison disperse the warm autumn silence with silvery bells of carefree children's laughter and rush around mom and uncle, rustling their little feet on colored leaves and kicking a carrion already eaten by worms.</p><p> - You’ll never catch me, Sheriff Sourface! - Klem, who has saddled a horse on a stick, shouts between the trees.</p><p>- Beware, papa Menshen, I will catch you! - squeaks Maddy, barely keeping up with the older sister.</p><p>- Don't push your mother off the ladder, little fry! - having become satisfied with the girls rejoicing in Indian summer, Jim jokingly shakes his finger and swaps empty and full baskets, - play in the yard!</p><p>Clem, running past, shows her tongue to her uncle and gallops on with a valiant giggle.</p><p>- Oh, that's thats's the story, huh? - Griffith dashingly shifts his "Fedora" to one side, and, folding his palms into gunfingers, sets off in pursuit, - beware, sheriff, these are my tickle guns and I'm gonna getcha, so you'd better run!</p><p>Having overtaken the girl running around one of the trees, Jamie knocks her down on withered foliage and starts tickling, and bursts into laughter when Maddy arrives in time, shouting "Uncle James, wait a minute!" begins to do the same with him, joining the pigpile until Chloe calls out to all three of them.</p><p>- Why the hell it's inpossible to run around in my own house, - Jim grumbles and, standing next to the ladder, puts the basket on his shoulder so that his sister does not need to hold it in weight, and clenches his teeth, restraining a groan - from an unsuccessful attempt to twist the torso in order to step on another feet on  when Chloe pours the apples into the container.</p><p>- Jim, are you okay? - the girl stands, with one hand holding on to the trunk of a tree, and with the other clutching red apples with a yellow barrel to her chest and looking worriedly at her pale brother.</p><p>- Yes, I just stood badly, - James looks up and beamingly smiles at his sister. - It's okay, just a lumbago. Has already passed.</p><p>- Maybe you will lie down, Jim? - sister descends to the ground, holding the fragrant fruits in her hands, and carefully puts them in the basket that James has just put.</p><p>- Jesus Christ, Chloe, everything is fine, never mind, - he absentmindedly scratches the back of his sister's head, and his coarse hair rustles softly, like autumn leaves, under his nails. A light breeze kisses his cheekbones, and James looks over his sister's shoulder at the path leading into the forest, and for a split second it seems to him that there, on the horizon covered with crowns, it is <em>unnaturally bright</em>.</p><p>
  <strong>October 2007, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole</strong>
</p><p>Due to the prescriptions by the traumatologist, to whom Davey almost forcibly dragged him, James cannot drain the pills normally, and running every five minutes to the bathroom, barely squeezing out three or four drops from his penis,and it is damn annoying; a more effective alternative in the form of poking his fist into the lower abdomen and subsequent mechanical squeezing of urine, as if he was not a man, but a paralyzed cat, Griffith is also not happy with it, but on the other hand, he is glad that the anti-inflammatory drug is working as expected - the edema has disappeared, the skin has returned to normal temperature, and stepping on the foot is no longer as unbearably painful as it was a few weeks ago, and there is no longer a need for painful novocaine blockages. Walking and sitting is still uncomfortable, so most of the day James is lying around in bed, exhausted from boredom. To kill time, he scribbles texts to friends, looks at the map of the starry sky hanging over them and hovers in the clouds in anticipation of inspiration, stares at the TV, mindlessly surfs the Internet from a notebook - a birthday present from Milo who got rich like Croesus, and often fiddles with Clem and Maddy, teaching them how to paint and sculpt, playing with them and reading fairy tales. Most of all, the girls, like him at their age, like Peter Pan, and they enjoy looking at the pictures under the strict guidance of an ill uncle, who explains each illustration: about Captain Hook, about Neverland and about Kensington Gardens, where the obnoxious boy ran away from his parents.</p><p>- Where are these gardens, Uncle Jim? - asks Clemens, sleepily rubbing his eyes, - are they real?</p><p>James grins at his niece's treatment and gently kisses the top of her head, straightening her pigtails.</p><p>- Of course they're in London, honey. If Mom allows me, you and Maddie will definitely go there when I am fully recovered.</p><p>- If we both blow and kiss, your leg will go faster? - the girl's blue eyes shine with naivety and sincerity peculiar only to children, and for some reason this look and question makes Griffith a little uncomfortable.</p><p>- Of course, Clem, - he smiles and closes the book, - good night, sweethearts.</p><p>- Good night, Uncle Jim.</p><p>
  <strong>November 2007, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole </strong>
</p><p>James absentmindedly rubs a slightly aching thigh and crunches his fingers, kneading them before work: after a protracted creative crisis, the muse finally deigned to give him a weightless kiss on the crown - apparently, to cheer him up, until the mercilessly aching leg does not let him idly rush through the cities and villages with guys in search of hack-work and entertainment - which makes his hands itch with impatience, yelling about their readiness to cheerfully tap out graceful thoughts and witty metaphors packed in letters and now, a lively beat on the keyboard is interspersed with the soft clatter of a mug of cooled tea on a rough oak table and the rustle of manuscripts lying in a dense blanket on almost the entire surface of the workplace.</p><p>Page. Second. Tenth. Here, at the behest of neurons sending impulses to the fingers, life flourishes on the computer screen with flat gerberas and lush clematis: today he is writing a simple story about the wedding of a plump laughing nurse and a brave warrior who miraculously persuaded his best friend - a little autistic laboratory assistant - to write a speech. The text is printed quickly and easily, and the smile does not leave James's face - he is touched by the infantilism of his hero and, in a fatherly way, gently guides him in the right direction, protects him, does not let his face fall into the mud in front of a large audience... </p><p>
  <em>"- All emotions - and particular love - stand oppose to the pure, cold reason i hold above all things, - squeezing a glass in his palm, continued Alan Marsh, - a wedding, in my considered opinion, is nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world. Thomas, I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But as I am apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion...." </em>
</p><p>There is a knock on the door, and James, without taking his eyes off the monitor, unintelligible humble, making it clear that he can be visited. ...</p><p>
  <em> "- Actually, now i can. Rosie, when I say you deserve this man..."</em>
</p><p>... - Jimmy, dinner, - Chloe calls; from the corridor immediately came the smell of fried potatoes and stew - and as soon as he had not noticed? Ah, screw it ... </p><p>
  <em> "- Is the hihest compliment of which i am capable. And now onto funny stories about Thomas...."</em>
</p><p>- Huh? - James looks up from his work and with his fingers frozen over the keys looks at the girl, - ah, yep! Wait, I'll come later. I'll add it first, then warm it up. Thanks.</p><p>The girl nods and leaves her younger brother alone, and he again plunges headlong into the charming world he invented, filled with the aroma of flowers and sweets, gentle violin music, dancing newlyweds, candle flame and the quiet but bright sadness of the best man who sees off his only friend and former neighbor in the apartment to family life. Putting the violin aside, the laboratory assistant bows and with a strained smile watches the guests dancing to cheerful modern music; for some reason, he, who loves to dance, does not have a couple on this very day: his companion - a bridesmaid - comes off in the company of some licked mathematician in an old-fashioned suit, so he leaves the rented mansion and goes out into the yard to smoke and watch to the stars.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. II. Ignoti nulla curatio morbi</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wherever roads have carried —</p><p>Past exonarthex made of thorn,</p><p>Past proud and great</p><p>And desperate minds —</p><p>Muses of revenge and sorrow</p><p>Sounded in dead letters</p><p>And married corpse to the grave —</p><p>A cross would stick into the ground.</p><p>As a burden snake</p><p>Under the tombstone</p><p>Fear's hided in black depths</p><p>And pokes its middle finger into the sky</p><p>(c) Гевал — "Эпитафия"</p><p>
  <strong>September 2007, Pembrokeshire, Haverfordwest, Withybush General Hospital</strong>
</p><p>Two weeks ago Griffith hit his foot again on the corner of the dining table — at that moment all his attention was focused on a mug filled to the brim with hot coffee, so of course he had no chance to notice the quietly dozing cat, barely visible on the gray carpet. As a result, the mug and James's composure shattered as soon as he stumbled over the unfortunate animal and bumped his just returned to normal limb in full force against the oak table and fell in its "friendly" wooden embrace.  </p><p>The result of the unsuccessful fall was: a frightened pet, a deep scratch on the palm from a splinter, a rather unsightly hematoma, a visit to a traumatologist and a referral to an MRI scan and consultation at a clinic in the Pembrokeshire administrative center due to the fact that surgery and orthopedics in such a provincial town as Stackpole left much to be desired; and now Griffith is sitting in line at the county central hospital, enduring a breaking, twisting pain in his thigh that ignored novocaine, and struggling to distract himself from the annoying chatter of local patients and the muffled, slightly eerie noise coming from the MRI room, similar to the work of a failed boiler in the only way available to him — playing "snake" and a pitiful likeness of Tetris, squeezed into the framework of the world — old "Nokia": he forgot his tab at home, and there was no way to buy something more sophisticated due to lack of money — the editor of the small newspaper accepted and even published his article about the unsuccessful burning of a stuffed animal on the night of Guy Fawkes, when a bound tourist was found under a pile of boards, branches and wooden pallets, but was not in a hurry at all to pay the fee — "<em>because that, like a Jack, thou keep'st the stroke betwixt thy begging and my meditation.I am not in the giving vein today,</em>"  — until the nurse shouts out his name, inviting him into the office.</p><p>— Please go into the booth, take off your shoes, and  everything metal: keys, coins, telephone, — Dr. Knight mutters, holding out another pair of shoe covers to Griffith, — if the jeans have metal buttons, also take them off. Put on shoe covers immediately on your socks and go into the hall outside the door. What's the trouble?</p><p> — Er... my hip hurts, — undressed James pulls out a blood test, X-ray and a referral from the regional hospital and puts them on the table of a pretty sexy nurse with a badge “V. Norbury ”and goes to the examination room, where he lies down on the table.</p><p>Putting a roller under the patient's knees and covering them with some kind of lid, the doctor puts headphones and a rubber bulb on a tube, similar to a tonometer pump into his hands: </p><p>— Use it is in case it gets too bad or scary to you.  </p><p>— Come on, there's nothing to be afraid of, — snorting, Griffith sticks out his thumb and, refusing the proposed units, leans back on the pillow, — let's go.  </p><p>— As you say, — the diagnostician grins and, having pressed some buttons, goes to the utility room, — do not worry, the procedure is completely safe. </p><p>— Then why do you go to the next room and close behind a thick dense wall in order to press the button that turns on the "completely safe" apparatus? —  Jamie grins. </p><p>The door closes behind the diagnostician — if Griffith turns his head to the left, he would see his face behind the glass, like in an X-ray or fluorography room — and Jim, folding his arms across his chest, crawls with interest with the back of his head over the flat, sagging headrest, studying the environment in anticipation of that hum and, after the table with a pleasant vibration brings him into the ring of the tomograph, he almost jumps in place when the device begins to rattle, pound and rumble deafeningly, replacing the buzzing with clatter and clanging and mixing rhythms reminding something from experimental German noise of the late eighties — "Einstürzende Neubauten", if he doesn't mistake. </p><p>The procedure seems to be endless: Griffith manages to examine every spot on the ceiling, count the foreseeable number of lamps — fifteen — and examine the part of the MRI device directly above him, blinking red and green LEDs and looking like a frustrated face, until finally the cacophony stops.</p><p>— That's it, we've done here, — Jim hears from behind the wall, — get dressed and go into the corridor, Vivienne will bring you the result and description.</p><p> — Thank you, — James walks in the indicated direction past the next poor fellow and, having sat down heavily on the sofa, sticks to the phone, mentally prepared for the fact that he has to sit again for a couple of hours, but not even fifteen minutes pass before juicy hips of assistance appear in front of his nose.</p><p><br/>— Here you go, Mr. Griffith, — smiling affectionately, Mrs. Norbury hands Jamie the file with the CD and escorts him to the administrator, who, in turn, sends him to the orthopedic traumatologist's office.</p><p>— So young, and bones are bothering already? — the doctor — a very respectable man with an impressive belly and no less impressive beard — meticulously examines the newly arrived patient; James, feeling uncomfortable under this gaze, hands the doctor a binder with all the examination protocols and, resting his trembling hands on his knees, restlessly turns his head, examining the dull decoration of the office and posters with diagrams of the supporting apparatus and its diseases.</p><p>— Amplitude limitation? Do you complain about the crunch? — the doctor asks, leafing through documents and tapping something on the keyboard with a meaningful chuckle.</p><p>— No, it’s like it’s no longer, I smeared everything, drank everything that doctor said to,  and I didn’t jump unnecessarily.</p><p>— Well, then I can congratulate you on your hip, Mr. Griffith. Most likely it will serve you faithfully until death do you part after a few injections.</p><p>— I do hope that not the death that will separate me from it. Er...  sometimes it hurts to lie down and gives off in the back if I turn around unsuccessfully. What do I have in general? Since I was  sent here, isn't it just a simple bruise or...?</p><p>— Well, my dear ... — unpleasantly smacking his lips, the orthopedist turns to Jim and, clasping his palms on the solar plexus, twirls his thumbs with an important until faint look.  </p><p>— For God's sake, Dr. Hooper, what kind of archaisms do you use, — James says as calmly as possible: the doctor's impenetrable face affects the nerves that are already shaken from insomnia, and more than anything he wants to throw out a cheap coffee from a vending machine directly on a snow-white robe to this doctor with horn-rimmed glasses and wet, thick, kinda  <em>lustful</em> lips, — let's be short and to the point, so as not to waste my or your time.   </p><p>— Okay, Mr. Griffith, — the man shrugs his shoulders and begins to write something in the outpatient card, — in principle, we do not observe anything serious in your case, although a bruise of the joint and the external fascia tensioner ...  </p><p>—  Dr. Hooper, I'm just a humble freelancer, not Alan Turing to decipher this fucking "Enigma" of yours. </p><p>— Briefly speaking, soft tissue contusion and the first degree of coxarthrosis, — the traumatologist uttered after a little hesitation, — there is no need for surgery, so you can limit yourself to intra-articular injections of hyaluronic acid, light anesthetics, anti—inflammatory drugs and physiotherapy.</p><p>Resigned to the fact that he will not be normally told anything and have to look through the medical encyclopedia, James, who does not have even the slightest idea of what the doctor is talking about, and does not dare to explain the terms simply squeezes out the standard "thank you, all the best, see you soon ", leaves the clinic on wadded feet and takes a bus to Stackpole.</p><p>One way or another — thoughts are spinning chaotically and confused as snowflakes falling outside the window — the opportunity not to cut anything pleases Griffith leaning against the stained window and covering his eyes: he suffered three surgeries and did not like a single one — although the prospect of injecting medications not intravenously or intramuscularly but directly between the bones somewhat confuses and, to be honest, frightens.</p><p>... Alarmed only by the traces of a few pairs of feet, the snow crunches pleasantly under the rough soles when Jim wanders to the shore of Barafundle Bay, where a figure vaguely resembling himself is frozen — the same hiking jacket, hat and gloves;  hearing his footsteps rustling on the beach covered with a white veil, it lifts head and looks at the sky, gradually glazing from the lights up, just at the moment when the transparent mob is diluted with the brightly flashing coma of Holmes comet and the asteroid Moriarty flashing in its light — it's amazing that there are astronomical bodies named after fictional characters, but none of their great variety bears his fairly common surname — and for a split second illuminates the calm surface of the water.</p><p><em>— They are so far away... —</em> a whisper, rustling like autumn leaves, is heard in the darkness, but the hysterical-aching phrase from "Le Petit Prince"  does not continue as it was written by Saint-Exupery, — <em>their light comes to us for so long ... We are one hundred and fifty million kilometres from the sun. Its light is eight minutes long already, and it will not reach Pluto in five hours.</em></p><p> — Not so much, — Jim answers, chilly wrapping himself in the park and looking up with a shaky outline, — there is almost four and a half light years from Proxima Centauri to the Sun. </p><p><em>— We know about the stars from photographs only. The ocean is better ... But you also have to see it</em>. </p><p>As soon as Griffith looks down, the beach seems to throw itself in his face, and the body turns out to be flat on the cold ground: someone twisted it — <em>but I wanted to see the sea </em>— and, grabbing him under the ankles and armpits, drags him somewhere and puts on very hard and not quite soft — either sand, or a hospital bed — and sews a hedgehog in place of the damaged joint, from which Jim wakes up and finds himself in the bouncing salon of "national express" — breathing heavily and with a red spot on his forehead on the place where the skin touched the cold glass. </p><p>Burning with shame — the inquisitive glances of all fellow travelers are directed only at him — James hastily leaves the cabin and, having left a few stations before the change to route 387, sits on a bus stop and nervously lights up a cigarette while waiting for the next bus.  </p><p><strong>December 2007,  Pembrokeshire, Stackpole</strong> </p><p>Furious screams shake the faceless walls of the treatment room: two gorilla-like orderlies firmly press wailing James to the couch like a violent madman, the third one fixes his leg with a steel grip, twisting it at a strange angle — strongly to the side across the entire bed — and frowning Dr. Hooper slowly injects Griffith into the hip joint almost five milliliters of horribly viscous medicine: one might wonder what it is, these five milliliters, but the pain is so burning, so bursting, so unbearable that it seems to James that his thigh is about to burst, and he is screaming good obscenities, screaming at the top of his lungs, screaming hoarse, hating himself for weakness and not noticing the treacherous tears flowing down her cheeks.  </p><p><strong>December 2007, Pembrokeshire, Bosherston.</strong> </p><p>This year it is Milo's turn to host at Christmas. An admirable and harmlessly envious whistle escapes in unison from the lips of McKensie, Norton and Griffith as soon as they see Clavell's chic brand-new Land Rover, which he did not drive into the garage on purpose despite the heavy snowfall.   During the exchange of gifts, James feels extremely uncomfortable: in their company he is the only one officially unemployed person, and the presentations handed to friends eloquently contrast with their presents.</p><p><br/>Leaning in a leather armchair, Griffith looks with a strained smile at his drunken comrades over a glass of untouched whiskey — he is not recommended to take alcohol and, oddly enough, he does not want to at all, although he should be, because at the moment absolutely everything infuriates him: unpleasant throbbing leg from yesterday's injection, flaunting the wealth of Milo's successful ad agency climbering, Davey's complaints about how difficult it is to run a PR company, and Bill's endless stories of “cumming in  Abby's coochie and her sweet ass in an elevator», and how complicated the filming process of reality show is.</p><p>Jim's mood is not at all festive: he is somewhat upset that his friends have a promising job, money and relationships, while he practically sits on his parents' neck as a dependent, writes articles for a newspaper and a website with horror stories and jerks off to anal porn with busty tanned actresses and goes on the booze — went on it, to be more precisely, he was drinking like hell — not to blue devils, but consistently every day he drank at least three or even four pints of beer a day, sometimes mixing alcohol with diphenhydramine for relaxation and inspiration — no, of course he does not directly envy  his comrades, but he also cannot be happy for them. Yes, it smacks of childishness, but he really wants to do something really <em>huge, terrifying and brave</em>, to be the first in something, at least once in his life.  </p><p>Soon pals are cut out from the incredible amount of alcohol and Griffith remains the only person awake at Clavell's cottage. Having thrown out exhausted whiskey into the sink, James copes with a small need barely — apparently, all medications associated with problems of the musculoskeletal drug cause problems with urination — brushes his teeth with a finger, scolding himself for forgetfulness and Milo for being so short-sighted, washes himself and wiping his face with his own shirt, limps into the only unoccupied room owned by the master of the house to lie in silence. </p><p>Pressing his back against the wall, Jim puts an elbow under his head and closes his eyes, scrolling through the chatter he heard today, drowning in a slight buzz in his leg — well, he still needs to take the medicine to fall asleep — and, putting the pill in his mouth, looks around in search of water, but the flicker does not understand where the light came from distracts it, making its way from somewhere from the side. The source of the glow turns out to be a laptop in hibernation mode, recklessly not password-protected, and Jim, who has swallowed tizanidine dry, eaten by curiosity that drove away sleep cannot resist the temptation to poke his nose into someone else's life.</p><p>Some folders are still locked, but there are very few of them, and Griffith decides not to waste time decrypting, especially since he doesn't really want to get into the most intimate stuff and starts studying the available materials, flipping through all sorts of nonsense like excel tables, presentations and photos from corporate parties in fashionable restaurants. But in a folder with an unreadable title, something really interesting is hidden: a novel of four hundred typescript pages. <em>Finished.</em></p><p>The lips curl up on their own, and the blood begins to rumble in his head: he is the second again...</p><p><br/>Skimming through the text, but not really reading it — apparently, Clavell wrote something like an artistic interpretation of the biography of his father, who died in 1995 from esophageal cancer when they were only sixteen years old, and it was his death that prompted Jim and Milo to choose a writing path — Jim rubs his tired eyes and with difficulty swallows the insult that has rolled up to his throat: what a lying scum is this fucking blonde!<br/><br/>He told everyone that he was too busy for such nonsense, but... — and, biting his lip, he scrolls to the finale, or rather finals, of which Milo had already had three and which Griffith is already studying more closely: the last version of the epilogue is too crude even for an inexperienced reader and does not fit into the plot, but, what is most important, it contains a description of a person, like two peas in a pod similar to the main character of Jims' novel, and he copies the ending to a flash drive, feeling himself guilty, envious and cowardly piece of shit.</p><p><strong>January 2008, London, St. Bartholomew.</strong>  </p><p>—  It’s going to hurt a little, Mr. Griffith, — the deep, measured voice of a young but gray anesthesiologist Dimmock reminds James of the rumble of waves and has a soothing effect as the procedural nurse and assistant hold him in the correct position, allowing the doctor to inject an anesthetic somewhere into his back.  Jim braves with all his might, but he cannot hold back a soft groan as the long needle repeatedly bites into the epidural space of the spine, and silently shakes in the preoperative block, waiting for everything to be ready; gradually the body grows numb from the lower back to the toes, and the heart starts pounding madly from the nerves: what if something goes wrong?</p><p>He is a bit uncomfortable with the thought that he will remain conscious throughout the whole surgery — at least his whole body is prudently covered below the waist with a green screen, from behind which the elbows and tops of the doctors peek out periodically, and only a strange jingle of instruments and almost illegible  negotiations of the operating team, now and then drowning in the hiss of some kind of apparatus applying pressure to the cuff on his forearm can be heard.</p><p>— I would have clashed without trial and investigation those idiots who bought a diploma, — the surgeon hiding behind a dark green screen mutters, clanking with tools, — one has to be so contrived to...  </p><p>— Yes, it is not a joint bag but rags, — echoes Dr. Dimmock, — look, they also damaged the synovium... And we have to remove athrofibrosis, too..</p><p>— Half-assed cockheads, what else can be said? — snorts a dumpy nurse who has seen life, changing a bottle on a dropper stand, — I am silent, I am silent ... </p><p>James does not even listen to their conversation and abstracts from what is happening: he scrolls songs and memories in his head, plays out possible micro-scenes of his story...</p><p>As soon as he remembers his work, the damn book of Clavell immediately pops up before his eyes — <em>damn, damn dimbo</em>! — and the left hand, not occupied by the pulse oximeter, involuntarily clenches into a fist, scratching the rubberized surface of the operating table.  </p><p>—Mr. Griffith, is the sense of touch back? — the voice of the assistant anesthesiologist sounds somewhat bewildered and alarmed, as soon as she sees the grimace that distorted Jim's delicate, neat features; sighing dejectedly, she leaves from behind the screen, straightens the nasal cannula and looks carefully at the patient.  </p><p>Catching the eye of the Esculapian, James swallows with difficulty the lump that has rolled up to his throat and coughs, but shakes his head negatively.</p><p>— Calm down, Mr. Griffith, you are in good hands, — the surgeon pulls back the mask and smiles at Jim, — you will play football in a week.  </p><p>Jim does not believe that bullshit: there is no such thing that today you cannot even get up, and in seven days you will rush headlong like a small child — no doctor is capable of this, even if his hands are three times gold and four times  platinum.  </p><p>When Griffith hears the surgeon's astonished exclamation, it seems to him that he has suffered a microinfarction of the myocardium: the pulse jumps, hands and jaws start trembling and cold sweat breaks through the body; the nurse, who noticed the patient's fright, quietly talks to the doctors and injects him with a sedative, from which James falls into a salty sea like the sea — <em>you can't agree with the ocean, Jamie, remembe</em>r <em>it </em>— where is it from? — silence. </p><p>Griffith wakes up abruptly from several factors at once: a burning sensation in the penis, rapidly gaining strength tearing aches in the thigh and an intolerable urge to piss; he tries to sit up, but his lower back and legs have not yet regained the proper sensitivity, and James awkwardly falls back onto the hard hospital bed, hissing from pain that shot through his entire body. After taking a couple of deep breaths and exhales, he now slowly pushes off with his hands trembling from weakness and hangs his legs tightened in compression stockings on the floor, noting with disgust that he was dressed in a diaper, like some elderly enuresis.</p><p>Grabbing on to everything, Jim drags into the bathroom on unhearding feet — with all his desire, he cannot bring himself to relieve himself right into his underwear, even if it is specially designed for such cases — shying away from everything, like Tom after castration a couple of years ago, and finds in himself both the strength and the audacity to wink at the pretty nurse hurrying to the staff room, holding the phone with her shoulder to her ear, who almost drops a heap of folders in surprise, widening her brown eyes and blushing, like an outcast girl who first received a kiss on the cheek from her beloved classmate.</p><p>Leaning on the sticky wall, Griffith tears off the hateful and humiliating fasteners, throws disposable linen damp from sweat into the urn and, directing his penis into the urinal, urinates and tries to remember how the matter managed to get to the operation — was he really carried away by his stories so much that he passed by diagnostics with an indication and approval in the queue for a quota, and the very expectation of surgery?  </p><p><strong>January 2008, London, St. Bartholomew.</strong>  </p><p>Jim is lying in a London hospital for about a week, stoically enduring endless calls from his mother, dressings, painful and disgusting punctures from a swollen and inflamed joint, taking pills, injections and a slight hunger: he does not tolerate a hospital kitchen as such — a couple of spoons of tasteless oatmeal or chicken broth with skins instead of meat is quite enough to sit on the toilet for half a day, burying face in a basin and joyfully vomiting out everything he has eaten and drunk over the past three hours.   </p><p>Davy, who rented a one-room apartment nearby with Melissa, comes every day with surprising intrusiveness and brings fresh newspapers and food that James hardly touches, and they walk together along the corridor of the therapy department for Griffith to slowly work out his leg, or sit in a deserted room, designed for four patients, drink tea with cookies and play cards, chatting about everything and nothing at once.   </p><p> — What's new? — James throws the card and reaches for a cup of tea, irritably waving aside Davey who jumped up, — I'm fine, I can do it myself.</p><p>— Nuffin', — Norton diligently but unsuccessfully tries not to look at Griffith or rather at the bandage visible under the light fabric of his pajama pants; noticing his languid gaze, James casually covers his legs with a blanket, — except that Bill decided to grow a tree from a seed.   </p><p>— Bullshit, Dave. I'll bet a hundred pounds that he'll spit on this thing even before Robert Burns's birthday. Your move.</p><p>Cardboard rectangles with a pleasant rustle lie on top of each other, glittering a smooth surface in the light of the lamp.</p><p>— I still can't get through to Milo, — Norton says thoughtfully and frowns, studying the maps he has, — it's going to the traditional winter pilgrimage to Bills' hut, and this fucker has fallen through the earth.  </p><p>— Fuck hum, I suppose he comes up with another tricky plan, how to shake more money out of consumers.</p><p>—  Or he is still writing that goddamn book, — Norton suggests, wiping his wet palms on the sheet and smiling shyly.</p><p>James cringes, but he does not want to give away Miles's secret, because if he does it, then it will be about <em>his</em> book, and the prospect of lying to a friend or signing his own creative inconsistency is not to his liking.</p><p>— How is Melissa? Check and checkmate, you amethyst, — changing the subject, Griffith throws the winning six of clubs and collects the cards in a deck to shuffle again. </p><p>—  Okay, — Norton draws lazily, — still doesn't take it in the ass.</p><p>Laughing, James rolls his eyes and sighs theatrically:</p><p>— When I asked about Mells, I didn’t mean <em>that</em>, you prick. I'm tired of your dick-thing minds.  </p><p>— My lil-bro is smarter than the freaks that make you lie here, Jim, — Davey retorts. </p><p>— I didn’t know that he was fumbling in medicine. Does your cherry popper know the difference between sugar beets and fodder beets?  — the chamber fills with laughter, from which Griffith winces and hisses, clutching at the beginning to hurt his thigh.</p><p>— Jimbo, are you alright? — Yes, everything is fine,  hand out the cards and don't fuck with my brains, — Griffith waves off, fidgeting on the bed to get comfortable and, noticing his friend's full of emotion, rolls his eyes, — God, don't look at me like <em>that.</em>  </p><p>— By the way, speaking about cerebral coitus, — Norton is embarrassed, shuffling the cards, and translates the topic, — I went to you and saw such a strange little guy in the smoking room. Shouted at someone so floridly that even I felt myself dumbass. Spitting image of yours, I sware.</p><p>— Fantasy is not your strong point, Sherpa Davey.</p><p>— Smash me with thunder if I'm lying! The same chopstick, only the coat is more expensive than your whole farm, and will give a hundred points ahead of curly Sue by the curliness.</p><p>— Every person in the world has at least six doubles, so it's not surprising, — the guy leans on his elbow and puts his ear on his shoulder, — at least that's how the gloomy British scientists found out.  </p><p>— Fuck the British, especially after the fact that cocksucker Clarkson screwed up. The conversation fades away and they play in silence for a while. In every movement of Norton, there is a certain alienation and nervousness, which he tries to suppress, but his attempts are in vain: from James's penetrating gaze, albeit drugged with pain medications, little can hide.   </p><p>— Just go on.</p><p>— What are you talking about? — Davey looks up from the fan of cards in his hands and mock naively flaps his eyelashes.</p><p><br/>— Listen, don’t take me for an idiot,— Jim says impatiently, looking almost burning holes in his friend, — what happened?</p><p>— Granny fell ill, — Norton reluctantly replies and angrily throws a nine of spades into a heap of cards, — I had to take a vacation for a couple of months, while my mother is playing with her new fancy man.</p><p>— Well ... at least now you can take a break from your official red tape, or what are you doing there ...</p><p>— Of fucking course I'll take a break, yeah, — Norton chuckles, rinsing their mugs, — okay, bro, the visiting hour ends in five minutes, see you soon.</p><p>— Say hello to Mells, and my best wishes to granny Igraine.</p><p>
  <strong>February 2008, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>James hides his face in his hands and looks at the blinking cursor of an empty text editor through his fingers, tormented by creative impotence — he'd been always wrote in one take before, clearly knowing the beginning, climax and ending, only linking the previously made notes in a notebook in which he carefully entered phrases, ideas and full arches.</p><p>Now, when the stitches have been removed and all that remains is to undergo physiotherapy to the end and finish the course of pills, Jim can finally work normally at the table — the only inconvenience is caused by very slowly absorbing edema and slight pain in the stitches that have not healed to the end when he sits down, and the thigh muscles are stretched.</p><p>And if there are practically no serious problems with the technical aspect of writing, from the point of view of the creative process itself there is a completely dead silence — James is too upset that the agronomy magazine refused him a vacancy for the editorial position, and cannot give birth even to a tiny paragraph.  </p><p>In every word, in every damn letter, Griffith hears the laughter of Milo who jumped over him and sees the inevitable stagnation of his main character, too mired in unrealizable fantasies, to whom he can no longer help. He wants, but cannot: the only thing in his power is to delete eight chapters and start all over again, but his hand does not rise</p><p>... Spitting with annoyance Jim turns off the computer and limps into the kitchen to snatch his father's beer and spend a couple of hours in its company watching another american film partly to abstract from the creative crisis, partly — hoping to get an idea and introduce it into the plot his story and at least somehow save the so far unnamed protagonist, partly to drown out his own loneliness, brightened up only by Tom washing in the middle of the room, concentrating on licking his paws and neck, shaking his big round head in a funny way.  </p><p>Lying in the dark — "Jacob's Ladder" was clearly not the best choice for this evening: the very thought that the only thing that is destined to burn in hell is a part of the soul that keeps a person on a sinful earth: memories, addictions, aspirations, and that if you cling to life, the demons will tear your soul to shreds, but if you accept the destined, then they will become angels and only help to leave the vanity of the world; it all depends on the <strike>pas, arranged in the correct sequence of </strike> perception — Jamie inhales the smells of the incipient spring and examines the dots tinted with phosphorus on the star map; one hand gently touches the surprisingly painless swelling on the leg, and the other, hanging from the bed, lazily sways a half-drained bottle. Catching his gaze to the constellation Cancer, Griffith decides that as soon as he can sit normally at the computer, he will try to save the main character of his book, beyond recognition, altering the text stolen from Milo.</p><p>The thought seems attractive to James and at the same time disgusting, and he mentally salutes Akubens and Altarf, not forgetting about Asellus Borealis, and applies himself to a cool glass neck, drinking a sleeping pill with Guinness.  Instead of tart malt, he vaguely senses something too bitter even for the strongest beer, something medicinal, and absently rubs his thigh, slightly sticky from the absorbent ointment, feeling two wounds from the stitches and soft bumps of small swelling.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. III. Saggitarius A asterisk</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dear Christ!</p><p>the very prison walls</p><p>Suddenly seemed to reel</p><p>And the sky above my head became</p><p>Like a casque of scorching steel;</p><p>And, though I was a soul in pain,</p><p>My pain I could not feel</p><p>(c) O.Wilde, "The ballad of Reading Gaol"</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>March 2008, London, St. Bartholomew hospital.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Turning the volume of the player to maximum so as not to hear the still familiar rumble of the MRI machine, James turns a page of a notebook covered with remarks and quotes he liked and corrected "for himself", and re-runs his eyes over the last notes:</p><p>
  <em>The Keepers of Moore and Gibbons. “I'm tired of looking at the photograph now. I open my fingers. It falls to the sand at my feet. At the same time, <span class="u">Comet Holmes</span> tumbles through the Solar System on its great elliptical orbit with an <span class="u">eccentricity of 0.432564.</span> What a beautiful celestial mechanic…. L<span class="u">ike the watch that Hector gave Milo in 1995.</span> The photograph lies at my feet, falls from my fingers, is in my fingers. I'm 16. I am watching the stars, admiring their complex trajectories, through space, through time. I am trying to give a name to the force that set them in motion. <span class="u">Alpha Centauri system will be visible soon. My first tap dance."</span></em>
</p><p>Having wet his pencil, he crosses out the last sentence and, hunched over on the couch squeezed by the visitors, carefully writes in:</p><p><em>“... It would seem that it is a rather simple system, consisting of three bodies. <span class="u">Make us whole”</span></em> until the doctor’s assistant, a blue-eyed beauty with dark hair and a chiseled figure and the name“ I. Adler "on the badge.</p><p>Dr. Victor Shilcott - a diagnostician that looks more like a porn actor than a doctor - like Dr. Nnight in Vitibush hospital, smilingly asks to undress and get rid of all metal things and holds out shoe covers; having done everything that is required of him, Griffith gives the folder with his past studies and a fresh blood test to a pretty girl in a white robe.</p><p>- The first client to submit documents without a reminder, - the nurse smiles.</p><p>- Excellent, I love responsible patients, - the doctor echoes her, - Irene, give him a candy, sweetheart.</p><p>- So I always say in the store: "good afternoon, I don't need plastic bag, I don't have discount card, I don’t want promotion item, I will pay by card", - Jim shrugs his shoulders and shuffles into the room where the diagnostician spreads a disposable sheet on a pull-out table that looks like into the tongue of a carnivorous monster, and scrambles to the cool surface.</p><p>Having arranged the patient as expected, Shilcott holds out the already familiar headphones and signaling:</p><p>- If you suddenly feel ...</p><p>- I just did an MRI recently, so I already know for sure that I won't need it, - Jim interrupts indifferently, but thanks.</p><p>- If you say so, - the doctor nods and closes the door behind him, and continues to speak already over the speakerphone, easily blocking the deafening roar of the apparatus that did not take long to wait, - try not to move during the procedure.</p><p>- Got it, - shrugging his shoulders says Griffith, but after a couple of minutes every part of his body begins to itch unbearably, then the neck starts to whine, then the arms stretched along the body begin to flow, they desperately want to stretch and lay them behind his head and, although he really endures and freezes "at attention", at some point the rhythmic clanging is interrupted, and Victor looms in front of his face.</p><p>- I repeat again: please do not move, James, the program gets lost and you have to do everything again.</p><p>- Okay, okay, - Jim snorts irritably and, having thoroughly scratched everything that is possible, relaxedly spreads over the tongue of the tomograph and keeps a low profile until Dr.Shilcott finishes the procedure.</p><p>- Get dressed and wait outside, Mrs. Adler will call you.</p><p>Thanking the doctor, Griffith goes into the corridor, but he does not have time to open his notebook, instead of Irene, the diagnostician himself leaves the office.</p><p>- Mike, now let's go with a young man ... Yeah ... Yes, in your area definitely. Good, - holding the phone between his shoulder and ear, Dr. Wentham twirls a CD on his finger and, finishing the conversation, nods to Jamie, - Mr. Griffith, I gotta ask you to come with me at 221 room.</p><p>Jim mechanically follows the traumatologist to the elevator, descends to the second floor and further - several turns, past gurneys, wheelchairs and paramedics plying back and forth, and patients, until he almost crashes into the back of a stopped diagnostician.</p><p>
  <em>Cab. # 221. Head dep. oncology Dr. W. T. Stamford</em>
</p><p>From one sight of the sign, the heart skips a couple of beats, and Griffith has to grab the wall when his legs give way - <em>come on you, fucking alarmist</em> ... no, no, it just can't be - and his eyes are rapidly darkening. Jim's consciousness, of course, does not lose, but he is thrown into cold sweat, his fingers begin to tremble, and a cosmically dead silence reigns in his head, as if James had smoked a joint with low-quality hashish and poured half a bottle of knocked-off absinthe to the bottom; he feels that he is sinking again, as in the 1982 when he fell out of the boat and probably would have drowned if his father had not saved him in time.</p><p>Cancer? What fucking cancer at his age?</p><p>He feels to be sucked into a black hole, stretching his "being", dragging his legs to the point of singularity, while the gutted, turned inside out brain drifts somewhere on the event horizon, barely able to catch the relativistic jet of a doctor reciting latin names of muscles, coming from somewhere from overturned universe overnight.</p><p>- No.</p><p>- Mr. Griffith ...</p><p>- No! I have had bad regeneration since childhood. I just had an operation here ... just a couple of months ago, and I did this ... I missed physiotherapy and did not drink these of yours ... I do not remember what it is called ... so no, it can't be this ... - his own voice is muffled and ugly slow, losing phonemes in a distorted space-time.</p><p>- Mr. Griffith, - a plump like a freshly baked donut Stamford with kindness and complete sympathy looks at him over oval glasses, - I certainly understand your ...</p><p>- You don't understand a damn thing!</p><p>Lord, how the hands are shaking. Why is it so quiet? Why is everything silent? Only a barely perceptible hissing whistle of an insatiable collapsar, greedily sucking in all living and inanimate, material and disembodied...</p><p>- Sorry. It's just ... - his voice breaks, and the irreversibly grimacing face shoots with heat, when the eyes begin to burn from the tears coming through, - this is ... no. This is mistake.</p><p>- Of course I can once again take your blood and biopsy for analysis and send you for a scan, but this will not change the diagnosis, and you will only waste your time and money.</p><p>- Time? - the guy can’t restrain himself and breathes out this word, and he begins to pound from the thought that, coming out together with processed lung oxygen, it turns his life into small grains of sand, which are poured through his fingers in dry streams.</p><p>Time is a terrible thing when it comes to a certain amount of it, and utterly delightful when you think of it cosmologically as something hopefully material.</p><p>
  <em>No, son, this is fantastic.</em>
</p><p>Helplessly shifting his gaze from one doctor to another in the hope that this is another joke in the spirit of Bill or Davey, Jim looks at his own photographs hung on a negatoscope, and even without medical education clearly sees rather large, hostile inappropriateness and alienation, although perhaps images simply enlarged - bunches of light spots hanging from the middle of the thigh to the hip joint by pleiads on his muscles.</p><p>They are too eloquent, too obvious, too congruent with the bumps on his leg, and James can no longer deny the fact that he is fucked completely. He cannot, cannot ... and clings to the edge of the table so that sweaty fingers turn white.</p><p>
  <em>Did you want to be the first? Receive and sign.</em>
</p><p>The words twitch and dance like toy clowns, hurry, jump, knock each other off their feet, and the old layers are covered with new ones, pressed by them to the very bottom of the abyss that has opened in consciousness, mixing with heavy, some kind of oily and clumsy thoughts and a sickening shiver in the whole body.</p><p>- It couldn't do that in two months, - James speaks only to fill the ringing void throbbing in his head, but the formulations dissolve before he speaks them out and leaves the skull, leaving only a vile cocktail of fear and apprehension , - could not ... could not. There's no sore that can be as fast as some chickenpox ... - he mutters and absentmindedly runs his hand behind the collar of his shirt, rubbing the base of his neck, which still retains the memory of the chickenpox transferred back in college in the form of raised small scars.</p><p>The doctor sighs, squeezes his lips even tighter so that only a narrow thread remains, and begins to fill in some forms.</p><p>- Sarcoma is a very aggressive disease, Mr. Griffith, - unnaturally calm, as if we are not talking about a fatal disease, but about some kind of cold, the doctor's tone cuts his ears, like a drill screwing into his temple, - but so far the nodes are still small, and the tumor is not has grown behind the fascial membrane and does not displace the vein, we can undergo a course of chemotherapy to shrink the tumors, then perform an operation to remove large tumors growth that are in the immediate vicinity of the lymph nodes and veins, after which we will resort to radiation therapy.</p><p>- Will it be for sure? - James cannot bring himself to look at the doctor and nervously tears the pages from the notebook into thin strips, twists them into tight sticks and crumples them in his fingers like dry blades of grass - well, I mean ... is that right? Or is it better to cut it off right away? Put the prosthesis there and so on.</p><p>Dr. Stamford looks up from the papers and looks a little surprised and sympathetic from the crumpled paper rods dancing in the patient's shaking hands to his eyes.</p><p>- Mr. Griffith, firstly, there is absolutely no point in cutting off an almost healthy limb, and secondly ... well, you understand that with such a location of the tumors as yours, the leg will be amputated along with the acetabulum of the pelvis. Not even a stump will remain.</p><p>The heart hoots in his heels, and black midges swarm in front of his pupils, when Jim, without even closing his eyes, imagines himself after the operation: how awkwardly he tries to get up, redistributing body weight with a shifted center of gravity, what a fool he looks like when he buys one sock instead of two, and with one leg he for sure will not find a girlfriend and go to the bay... <em>Summer, friends frolic in Barafundle Bay, and he sits in a wheelchair in his room and looks out the window, a pitiful stump, subhuman, alive, but it is not clear why.</em></p><p>And for some reason, Griffith terribly clearly sees someone else's man's hand on the right shoulder of his future self: with a small chemical burn on the little finger, a mole above the wrist and rough calluses from the violin strings on the fingertips.</p><p>- Good, - he squeezes out through clenched teeth until ringing in his ears, - how much?</p><p>- James, - the traumatologist sits down next to his colleague's left hand and looks anxiously at Griffith, - guy, what are you doing? You are in the first stage, don't you think ...</p><p>- I'm not talking about <em>that</em>, - Jim dismisses, exhaling - he could not even think that the doctors would come up with such a bad idea that the question would be raised about death - that I, don't I know that "free for sure, but you wait three weeks, medicines are also free, but for half a year only, and then you will break your jaw on soft cookie"?</p><p>- I think it will help you. Psychologically, - the doctor makes a spectacular stroke on an empty letterhead - there are such centers in Cheritone and Saint Petrox. Support Group. Physically, we will do everything in our power.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>April 2008, Pembrokeshire, Haverfordwest.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Two hours before getting up are the quietest time in the oncology department of the Haverfordwest oncology center: both the medical staff and the patients for the most part are asleep, drowsy from the treatment, and left alone with his thoughts James appreciates and hates this silence, coupled with the seeming loneliness as never before; why exactly he came here remained unknown to friends and family - instead, Griffith told them a pack of lies that he needed to patch up his leg a little more and at the same time write a small article about the recently opened wing of the hospital, dismissed from ubiquitous Davey, took off the good half of the money that he had been saving for his own house by the sea near Barafundle Bay for eight years, and left for the capital of Pembrokeshire for six long weeks.</p><p>Lying on a sagging bed in a ward with huge windows overlooking both the street and the corridor, Jim grimaces from the unpleasant heat that spreads through his body from a jugular vein, through which anticancer drugs are poured into him every day for six hours, making the body weak and burn like hell: cancer treatment is clearly not the best that Griffith had to go through in his almost thirty years, but still it is a struggle for life, and not for first place in a math Olympiad or a grant to publish stories, and he makes a promise to himself that he will definitely, without fail, recover.</p><p>Because the closer the breath of death is, the more desperate one wants to live. Because what you started needs to be completed. Because, once one started to swim, one will not jump off this business in the middle of the way - either swim to the shore or sink.</p><p>The clanking of the wheels of the cleaning trolley and the quiet cursing of the nurses who are passing and receiving the shift signify a new day - and now the patients, among whom there is practically no one under fifty, as if only not sweating old people dressed in shabby clothes are going into battle, they begin to sit next to them, ply past, moan from afar: bald, without eyebrows and eyelashes, with sunken cheeks, waxy skin, disfigured by operations and chemotherapy that kills rebellious cells, but does not spare the healthy tissue of bodies already exhausted by the debilitating disease.</p><p>They smell of old age, vomit, urine and death and glide around the world around with aimless and dull looks with a kind of bewilderment turning into regret, as soon as they see a young man strikingly different from them: young, not very beautiful, but charismatic, with dark blond curls and lively, slightly slanted eyes of an unusual, blue-green-gray color, still framed by light and long eyelashes.</p><p>Some of them - those who are more experienced - even talk to him, joining the doctors, and rustle with dry tongues the correct and convincing things: that need to be patient, that he need to eat, that everything will pass, that urinating in the night stool is not humiliating at all and throwing up on the dressing gown and white shoes of a nurse giving injections is perfectly normal.</p><p>Jim hears and even listens to them, but only superficially, because they are just shouting something from the shore, like a support group, or they are just splashing around, but they will not swim this river for him: this is his lot, his Rubicon. And Griffith must swim.</p><p>Like one that stands upon a promontory,</p><p>And spies a far-off shore</p><p>where he would tread,</p><p>Wishing his foot were equal with his eye,</p><p>And chides the sea that sunders him from thence,</p><p>Saying, he'll lade it dry to have his way:</p><p>So do I wish the crown, being so far off;</p><p>And so I chide the means that keeps me from it;</p><p>And so I say, I'll cut the causes off,</p><p>Flattering me with impossibilities.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>April 2008, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>On the day of the end of the chemotherapy course, James begins to regret that he decided to go this way alone: he did not expect that the treatment could be so exhausting, did not imagine how difficult it would be to get ready, leave the hospital, wait for the bus, and hitchhike for several hours on the way home, flipping through articles on "alveolar rhabdomyosarcoma of the lateral tissues of the hip joint," walk from the only stop to the house, nod tiredly to his mother, go up to the second floor, close the door, undress and go to bed.</p><p>Looking thoughtlessly at the revolving ceiling, Griffith plunges into a murky abyss of thoughts about what will happen next and how this whole epic will end - God forbid, it will be just ... a problem.</p><p>
  <em>The final problem.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>April 2008, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>... "- What was the point of inviting this sociopath to the wedding? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Rosie, he's not a sociopath. He wants to believe it, wants to be it, but it’s never like that. Alan's drama is that he is not a sociopath, but only strives for this strange ideal, - Thomas said sadly, - and ... " </em>
</p><p>For the first time in several months, James stumbles across his own text - and in fact, it would seem, just a minute ago, he clearly knew how and where to go, even rereading the entire chapter does not help; staring blankly at the stubbornly stuck line, he fumbles for cigarettes and lights up, but along with the tart smoke, an unpleasant burning sensation appears in his mouth, caustic soot settling on the inside of his cheeks.</p><p>Having extinguished the fence, Griffith goes to the mirror and, turning on the light, uses his fingers as an optragate and carefully examines the mucous membrane, covered with small red and light pink sores: he had something similar fifteen or eighteen years ago, when he had to drink antibiotics during either chickenpox or rubella.</p><p>Smiling wryly at the pretty thin reflection - it's surprising that none of the household members paid attention to the fact that he lost fifteen or twenty pounds - Jim runs his hands through his hair to wild the pretty outgrown swirls ... remaining on the pale palms.</p><p>- Fuck ... - leaning on the sink, Griffith stares blankly at the dark blond curly strands that seem darker than they really are because of the painful whiteness of the faience: if he can somehow shake off from weight loss, then the haircut of a naval infantryman cannot be explained by any abnormal heat, because the weather at the end of April is not much different from the chilly late March; on the other hand, there will be much more questions about bald spots, and James, going down to the hallway, puts on his jacket, throws his hat in his bag and stomps on Jason's Corner, where there is a proudly calling itself a "beauty salon" barber shop not far from the guest house.</p><p>- Ahoy, Eddie! - seeing a curly young fellow with a loose body, so sharply contrasting with a neat, sometimes pretty face, chilling at the entrance to the hairdresser's, - how is yours nothing?</p><p>- Hevvo, - after shaking hands with Jim, Freeman jars, shaking off the ashes, - I thought you found a better bavber, I haven't seen you for a month.</p><p>- Yes, I just ... just forgot, - Griffith leans his shoulder against the cool glass of an empty building and lights a cigarette, squinting from the bright sun, - and then some maggot bites me and I decided to dolly myself up.</p><p>- Oh-oh-oh, and what is his name? - playfully winking, Eddie, with all his usual sophistication, slightly throws back his hand, gracefully holding a cigarette, - I know him?</p><p>- Why immediately him?</p><p>- <em>Her</em>?</p><p>- Freeman, shut up and take my money, - Griffith grins and, unceremoniously opening the door, sits down in an empty chair.</p><p>- Maybe first wash your head? - Pulling a fresh towel from the cabinet and putting on gloves offers Eddie, but Jim shakes his head.</p><p>- It's clean.</p><p>- Okay, - the hairdresser fills a spray bottle with water and takes out a comb and scissors, - what are we doing? Al Capone or your usual "just blown"?</p><p>- Number one haircut, dude, - Freeman's blue eyes look in surprise at the reflection of the mirror, in front of which they are both, - like a Buddhist.</p><p>- What, stvaight buvv cut?</p><p>- Yup, stvaight buzz cut. Without this they won't allow me to wear dhoti and sing "Hare Rama Hare Krishna", - Jamie sighs: it was easier to just cut everything at home and then finish it with a shaving machine - and why did it occur to him just now ...</p><p>- Maybe at veast ...</p><p>- Eddybear, - Griffith interrupts rather rudely but harmlessly, fearing that the stylist will touch his hair, which will leave a clump in his hands, giving rise to unnecessary questions, - I know that it won't work for me, but the client is always right as long as he has money, so hold your goddamn twenty and do your job.</p><p>Having meticulously examined his skull - with an uneven nape, sunken temples and a too wide forehead, from which he looks like an edematous Asian with protruding ears, because of which sharp cheekbones seem even sharper, and the blurry eyebrows now looks like a much more serious flaw than a long nose, oddly shaped lips and small eyes - Jim runs his palm over the unusually hairless skin, velvet and cool to the touch and, saying goodbye to Freeman, puts on a dark gray fedora and stomps back.</p><p>Having reached the post office instead of turning to Deer Park View he wanders forward - suddenly he understand that he doesn't want to go home, either because his mother was probably busy in the yard, or simply from a desire to slightly prolong her loneliness - to a grove in the northwest, on the edge of which, on the side of the main town, a motel with a small shop drags its miserable state.</p><p>Griffith opens the door and, raising his hat slightly with three fingers - high enough to observe etiquette and low enough not to show a shaved head, but a woman standing at an ice cream counter with a child notices his image (Jim even hears her whispering to her son "do not approach to this bald man, he can be contagious") - he immediately buys a block of cigarettes and a package of" Boddingtons pub ale", and continues on his way past the stable - the broken asphalt softly rustling under the soles of his boots and the sun's rays making their way through the ash leaves do nothing worse than any sedatives, as well as the chirping of birds hiding in the crowns of trees and the neighing of horses behind - until he reaches the path closed for cars, where, after laying down his jacket and taking off his hat, he turns on the player and opens the first can.</p><p>Well, shaving off hair is not just humility: Jim feels like he has performed some kind of ritual, joining one of those who are hairless and in respiratory masks; yes, of course, in all media and posts, society enthusiastically speaks of the fortitude and strength of mind of patients with oncology, endows them with superhero qualities, calls them soldiers of Christ and compares remission almost to a victory over fascism - but only in articles and reports: in fact, you just have to leave on the street - and that's it, you're not a hero, but a leper.</p><p>A sad invention breaks the unsteady peace, and James, having drained the aluminum container in one gulp and putting it in his backpack, puts his hat back and wanders out of the forest into the open area of the field located between the farm and his house, kicking dusty pebbles and branches until he reaches the fence, through which he can see the backyard: fortunately for him, Helen mother is really busy with flowers, and from his Martins's workshop a hysterical screeching of an electric saw can be heard - dad was just preparing boards for a new table.</p><p>Throwing the fag end to the ground, Griffith quietly takes off his shoes, jerks into the room and locks himself in the bathroom. At first, he is afraid of his own reflection - the last time Jim shaved fifteen years ago, when driven by teenage rebellion, he signed up for punks - well, at least the tumor is not on the head: flaunting a scar across the top of his head would be a complete disaster - and, undressing, climbs under shower, exposing a hot face to cool splashes, and swears when, out of habit, he first takes shampoo and, waving his hand, uses it as a shower gel.</p><p>Sitting down again at his desk and putting on the on-ear headphones, Jim turns on the computer and tugs at the aluminum ring - the foam hiss crawls out of the tin like escaping milk, and almost spills on the wooden surface: twitching tunes of "Muse", rolling rumble of "Rammstein" together with the smell of beer and cigarettes set him up for creativity, but instead of continuing to procrastinate the sore chapter on the wedding, Griffith opens a new text document.</p><p>
  <em>"Feeling uncomfortable in a formal three-piece suit instead of the usual jeans, a T-shirt and a cardigan, Alan stood in the courthouse, glancing sideways at Victor Trevor - it was strange for him in general that he was attracted as a witness to a crime that he had never heard of, only because that they knew both Kane and his victim Karl Powers. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- “Just a colleague, Mr. Marsh? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Yes, - he nods to the lawyer. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Your words. Can you expand on the answer? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Mr. Trevor and I worked in the same lab until he quit. Feeling a gaze on himself, Alan turned around: Victor was looking at him from the dock, running his tongue over his teeth, dead lights danced in his eyes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- And why did he quit? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- As far as I know, he went into private practice. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- As a specialist? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Yes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Of those who conduct research in non-governmental institutions? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Apparently, one of those who, instead of researching blood, are engaged in its extraction. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Having said this, Alan got scared: did the jury laugh at his words or at himself? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Would you describe him as...? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Leading, - Victor Trevor said unexpectedly, - you are leading the witness. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Mr. Trevor, - the judge (Marsh remembered Alice's conclusion from Carroll's fairy tale - "once in a wig, then this is the judge" sternly looked at the defendant, as if warning him against untimely remarks. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Shut the fuck up you reptile! - cries out a woman, gray with grief - most likely, the mother of the late Karl.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Mrs. Powers, such remarks are inappropriate at the meeting! </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- He will object and the judge'll uphold, - Trevor nevertheless cut in and immediately raised his handcuffed palms, as if promising that he would no longer fit into the discussion - but the lights from his eyes did not disappear. This is what a person should look like when they don't know the difference between good and bad. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- How would you describe this man, his character, prejudices? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- No way. Of all the time that we worked in one laboratory, not even fifteen minutes of personal communication in total. I'm not even sure he knows my name. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Turning back to the defendant, Alan shivered from the fact that Victor, smiling, uttered his name with his lips and winked. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- I know the victim much better, - Marsh continued, clearing his throat, and pulled his head into his shoulders: no one asked him about Karl Powers - what if they thought it was he who killed the boy, not Victor? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- You'd better answer on the merits. When was the last time you saw Mr. Trevor? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- I ... - Alan hesitated: a lot of time has passed since then, and he could not remember the exact date or the circumstances, and Victor's boring gaze knocked him out of thought even more. Victor seemed to crawl into his memory, into his head, and diligently cleaned the memory, like segments on a CD-blank, - it seems about a year ago. I may be wrong, but it seems it was the spring of eighty-eight. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Are you saying that you last saw the defendant a year before the murder?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- I do not approve anything, - cold sweat appeared on his forehead, and Alan wiped it away with a shaking hand - Trevor let out a short, insolent laugh and winked again - now to the defender, who turned to the judge: </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Your Honor, I believe that there is no point in bringing this person to the meeting if he cannot "approve anything". </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- The jury will decide that."</em>
</p><p>Having opened the third can for today, James leans back in his chair and, putting out the bull and immediately lighting a cigarette again, skims through the written dialogue - such a one, of course - the phrase of Gordon Ramsay immediately comes to mind "this pork is so raw that it's still singing Hakuna Matata"- but there is definitely something in him ... Feverishly pondering what exactly is missing in the passage, Griffith goes to the window and, gently holding the curtain, opens the window, letting fresh air into the room, and returns to the computer.</p><p>
  <em>".... <span class="u">ADD LATER.</span> </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- One way or another, it seemed to me that there was some kind of special connection between us, - Alan admitted clearing his throat, to which Victor raised his eyebrows significantly and even a little conspiratorially. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Miss Sorrel, I fear that the witness may be biased in view of his last statement! - objected the lawyer. " </em>
</p><p>Jim interrupts, runs through the text again and, drawing deeply, crunches with his knuckles: it seems that he has almost found the <em>very thing</em> that will make something really effective, he just need to add pepper, spark ...</p><p>After opening the playlist, Griffith switches to "Mein Teil "for mood and insolence, and to the crushing riffs and insinuatingly maniac wheezing of German vocals, he clearly imagines how Alan having glanced at the jury, gives out the ins and outs in a few minutes, a toad-like ruler in a stupid wig warns him not to flirt , but to speak to the point, to which the main character, of course, continues to joke about - Jamie literally sees how he rolls his eyes, they say, "I'm surrounded by idiots," to which Trevor smiles unexpectedly shyly, sweet and so vulnerable - and now the bailiff leads Marsh to his prison cell, slamming the door. At the same time, two other employees accompany Victor in the same loneliness - lifeless gray, divided by a lattice into seven matte squares of dense light; as if sensing each other, both turn face to face and ... - to have time to write down, before the idea dissipates like cigarette smoke, and as soon as he begins to beat out drum rolls on the keyboard, as there is a knock at the door and a shout from the mother, which sounded exactly the moment when one song is replaced by another:</p><p>- Jim, I know you're home, come down to dinner! The hop hit in the head suppresses the panic that had kicked up and gives an idea of the image: two men are looking at the wall between them - Moriarty - <em>wait, who else is Moriarty</em>? - Trevor falls to the concrete with his whole body; the playfulness and bloodlust on his face disappear, she becomes completely devoid of any emotions, as if under the skin there were not muscles and bones, but a piece of lime or granite ...</p><p>- Jimmy, so .... oh God, - opening the door, the mother stares in fright at Jim, - what have you done to yourself?</p><p>- I signed up for football players, mom. I will go to the championship in May.</p><p>- And since when did you become interested in football?</p><p>- Since I took refresher courses in London a month ago, I told you, mom.</p><p>- Any toy is okay ... - Helen sighs - over the past ten years, the parents managed to endure not such eccentricities from their offspring: the desire to do tap dancing, and lip piercings, and weed (which Martin secretly joined while Mom went to Aunt Jane or Chloe), and the relationship with Mark - oh, dad will skin you alive.</p><p>Chuckling - dad physically punished him only three times: he gave a savory slap in the face for the fact that Griffith - then a high school student - came home in the morning and drunk, stroked his ass for a deuce in drawing with a belt, and whipped his hands with nettles when Jamie and the guys in eighty-eighth year stealing pears from Mr. Loyd, a local madman.</p><p>- When ... - the father does not bring the fork to his mouth, and looks dumbfounded at his son until he sits down next to him, - Helen, do we have a German-style dinner today?</p><p>- How so?</p><p>- Well, why do we need such a cabbage forks in the kitchen?</p><p>- Hey, dad, - Jim calmly puts salad and stew on his plate, - bon appetit.</p><p>- The same, - loudly slapping the child on the back of the head, so that he almost pokes his face into the hot potatoes, Mr. Griffith begins to laugh, - eat, don’t smudge yourself with it, you Jackie Wright.</p><p>- Dad, damn it!</p><p>
  <strong>May 2008, London, hospital. St. Bartholomew</strong>
</p><p>James sits in a small park near the hospital building, leaning back on a bench, and throwing his head back, looks at the sun through the leaves of the cedar branches spreading quietly in the wind. Breathing in the scent of the approaching summer with delight, he puts his hands in the pockets of his spacious linen trousers and stretches out his recently operated leg, feeling the bandages that were tightly tightened after the removal of the tumors and the soft, slightly damp ground under the thin soles of frayed sandals.</p><p>Most of the patients are still at dinner, so Griffith is the only person on the street, except for idly wandering around the hospital grounds, furtively smoking security guards and some loud but indistinctly indignant guy, whose rushing tirade came from around the corner. It seems that he was dissatisfied with the work of a certain Andersen and for whatever reason he reviled him with unexpectedly sophisticated and at the same time caustic speech patterns bordering on almost linguistic balancing act, thereby giving out a really good education - at least Oxbridge what Jamie feels like, to put it mildly, a large number of people, despite the philology diploma deserved by honest work. The voice of a young man, dissatisfied with the work of a forensic scientist, is surprisingly similar to his own timbre - the same low, velvety, with beautiful tints of intonation, but more imperious, confident and categorical and at the same time disgustingly arrogant.</p><p>Frustrated by such an unceremoniously disturbed calm, James rises heavily from the bench and, leaning on crutches rubbing his armpits, hobbles towards the main entrance of the hospital, out of the corner of his eye noticing the figure of a tall, graceful guy with violent curly hair of the color of dark chocolate, dressed in a classic suit and a lilac shirt, heading with a rapid stride towards the exit from the territory of Barts, without ceasing to loudly exhort the interlocutor that the mere presence of Andersen lowers the intellectual level of an entire block.</p><p>Griffith enters the building, feeling a slight envy of this guy full of energy: unlike him, Jim will not soon be able to boast of a firm, confident gait, from which his curly hair will roll bouncily, catching glare from the sun; Overcome with gloomy thoughts, Jamie bursts into the elevator, sullenly noticing the reflection of his noticeably thinner face, which seems somewhat alien due to his shaved bald skull, and already presses the button for his floor when a pretty nurse rushes into the booth after him, clutching a pile of documents to her chest. The girl looks at him carefully from head to toe, as if scanning her light brown eyes with her gaze, and her thin lips are already opening on inhalation to utter something, but James gives the girl a soft, apologetic smile, then leaves the elevator and, without turning around , returns to the ward, as usual, filled with the order of purely mundane chatter about work, sex, cars, again about sex, football and again about sex.</p><p>Neighbors more than once or twice attacked Griffith, insistently demanding tales from him about their intimate adventures, but soon left alone the silent neighbor, who was constantly hiding from annoying conversations, buried in a tablet or a hefty encyclopedia of astronomy, placing his sore leg on a rolled-up blanket ...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. IV. Homo homini geminus est</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well I'm still uncertain if my translation is readable and if the novel is interesting, so I really do appreciate comments or at least cudos just for know if this work is interesting for you as it is interesting for me.<br/>Sincerely yours, Otik.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This visitation Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.</p><p>But, look, amazement on thy mother sits:</p><p>O, step between her and her fighting soul:</p><p>Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works: Speak to her, Hamlet.</p><p>- Alas, how is't with you,</p><p>That you do bend your eye on vacancy</p><p>And with the incorporal air do hold discourse?</p><p>Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep;</p><p>And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm,</p><p>Your bedded hair, like life in excrements,</p><p>Starts up, and stands on end.</p><p>O gentle son,</p><p>Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper</p><p>Sprinkle cool patience.</p><p>Whereon do you look?</p><p>- On him, on him!</p><p>Look you, how pale he glares!</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>June 2008, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>When dad enters his room without knocking, James shudders in surprise and barely manages to minimize the window of a text document, in which he painstakingly and extremely carefully writes out all the actual and possible calculations of his treatment, because soon he will have to leave his father's house again, now only not for six weeks but for more than two months: again Haverfordwest, where he will receive the first course of radiotherapy and the second round of chemistry.</p><p>All of this for sure costs a lot of money, and he needs to thoroughly study this issue in order to last as long as possible on the accumulated funds, because while he does not have an official job it will be extremely problematic to take a loan from a bank - he will not ask any of the guys or relatives to become a surety; at least it's good that Griffith found the sites of charities that pay for therapy for low-income citizens of Wales, and managed to close the tabs before dad invaded the "sonnery", as his parents often called his room, otherwise it would be impossible to get away from a serious conversation with father.</p><p>- And why are you looking at the desktop wallpaper only, son? - half thoughtful and half humorously says the father, leaning on the doorframe, and with a worried smile looks at Jim.</p><p>- Just trainin' my memory, - the young writer answers out of place, hiding hands trembling from the surge of adrenaline from his parent. Thank God that he long ago stopped putting naked girls on the background of the computer, preferring gas nebulae, especially the Great Orion Nebula - a delightful mauve bowl that hides in its vast depths dark dust, glowing gas and merging with each other bright and hot stars.</p><p>- Why didn't you become an astronomer? - the father sighs and wearily rubs the bridge of his nose.</p><p>- Because I'm a humanitarian, unlike you and your mom, - Jim mutters, peering into the expression on his dad's face and trying to understand what caused his craving for communication with his offspring, 'cause conversations between parents and son were generally a rarity in their family ... With Chloe, of course, the chatter did not stop even for a moment when she called or came to visit, which was quite often, but with James this did not work out at all - he was always an introvert and generally preferred to write rather than speak, - maybe let's move on straight to the point? I'm busy, you're busy, what's all this about?</p><p>- I went to Aunt Jane’s house today to help dismantle the attic and I found something to please you, - says Mr. Griffith and winks conspiratorially at the puzzled Jim.</p><p>- And why the hell did you decide to tell me about this late at night, even entering without knocking? - James tries to pretend that he is extremely annoyed, but cannot contain a slight grin, curling his lips against his will.</p><p>- Because now is the time, son! So tear your ass off from the computer and go into the yard, - the father winks at his son again and silently leaves the room, leaving the door ajar; Griffith, nervously biting his lip - and what kind of idea had his father got into his head this time? - adds pages to bookmarks, just in case, logs out of the account and obediently steps after, grimly snorting when he again has to overcome the flight of stairs.</p><p>- Jesus fucking Christ, are you fucking kiddin' me? - at the sight of a battered, but rather powerful telescope, Jim cannot contain his admiration, at the same time feeling relieved from his heart: he was afraid that his usually shrewd father had revealed his secret.</p><p>- James Kimberly Griffith! - said Mr. Griffith, mock-reproachfully, throwing up his hands theatrically, - did we paid for your education for you allowing yourself this dirty talk?</p><p>- Dad, my obscene language is always clean, fresh and smells like the sea! Five years in philology are non penis canina est! - Jim snorts, leaning against the eyepiece and adjusting the sharpness, completely not noticing the smile disappear from Martin's face.</p><p>
  <em>- You'd better should turn six degrees to the left.</em>
</p><p>An unexpectedly warm stream of air, like someone's exhalation, scorched Griffith's bald skull, which makes Niagara Falls chills down his spine.</p><p>- Did you say something, Jim? Griffith looks up from the instrument and looks questioningly at his father.</p><p>- No, I was silent, - James answered in surprise, shrugging his shoulders, and again turned his gaze to the heavenly dome, - you are hearing things.</p><p>- Yes, it is quite possible ... Don't stay too long, son. And don't wake your mom up when you go to bed. Good night.</p><p>- And you, dad.</p><p>Somewhat puzzled by the fact that he said the thought aloud, James still directs the eyepiece a little to the left and greedily glares into the sky, which has become close and therefore even more mysterious, strewn with stars; he sees Pollux and Castor - the alpha and omega of the constellation Gemini - in full glory.</p><p>Two shimmering giants like two eyes look at him with warmth and approval. It would probably be great to have a twin...</p><p>With a sigh Griffith runs his hand over the cool metal of the apparatus - what a pity that he will not have enough time to play with the telescope for long, because the day after tomorrow he will be shaking along the bumpy road to the station, continuing his swim across the river whose name is "rhabdomyosarcoma", and goes into the house with aloof, tired bewilderment, listening to his own inner voice, which has recently become ... smarter, sharper, more perceptive, or something, monotonously telling long, seemingly forgotten excerpts from the Greek myth about the twin sons of Zeus and Leda:</p><p>
  <em>- Dioscurus Pollux, seeing that his mortal brother Castor had turned into a lifeless corpse, began to beg Zeus to bring him back to life, but the lord of the gods replied that he could only offer Pollux the following choice: either to share the life of the gods and be eternally immortal, or together with twin brother Castor spend six months in the gloomy kingdom of Hades, and six months on Olympus. Pollux immediately chose the latter, not wanting to part with his brother. Touched by such a tender friendship, Zeus turned the Dioscuri brothers into the constellation Gemini ... My God, why do you litter your hard drive with such rubbish, Jamie?</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>June 2008, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>Another knock on the door and my mother's "Ji-i-im!" - probably for the hundredth time in a day, makes the body shudder - from a sudden movement, the body shoots through a light and unobtrusive, but palpable pain - and the eye - nervously kicked up.</p><p>- Fuck, mom, what else? - James shouts, not looking up from his occupation: he prepares for a short-term move and puts away tapes, discs and magazines with porn, which will not be useful to him in London, in cardboard boxes so that they would not catch the eye of his parents or - God forbid! - girls during his absence.</p><p>On the eve of his departure, he nevertheless decides to lie to his parents, as if he allegedly found a job in the center of Pembroke as a junior assistant to the editor of the "Western Telegraph" newspaper and plans to live there on his own for a couple of months in order to somehow explain his next absence, and is now worried about the imminent departure of the resident.</p><p>Almost all his life under the parental wing of his only and beloved son, the mother constantly pestered him with advice, interspersed with persuasions to stay or at least take Davey with him, who, fortunately, was not in the British Isles right now - he went off with Mells on a business trip.</p><p>- Take the scarf, - mother is crying, good Lord, not again!</p><p>- Why the hell can I need it? I'll be back long before fall, mom, don't go nuts, I'm begging you! - James shrugs off the annoying maternal concern and cuts off the tape so abruptly that it hits the index finger with the blade and hisses in annoyance, sucking on the cut.</p><p>Swearing, Griffith seals the wound with a plaster, closes the door on the latch, glues the boxes and, checking with the list saved on the phone, checks whether he has forgotten anything - there was no extra money, and he doesn't want to buy something in the capital, where the prices were in two, or even three times more expensive than here.</p><p>
  <em>- Take the notebook. And socks, you always forget them, Jamie.</em>
</p><p>
  <strong>June 2008, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>- What if you still stay here and drive to work?</p><p>- Three hours back and forth? Of course, Jane, we have gasoline growing on the trees, - the father grins, parking near the bus stop.</p><p>- Pink Lady unleaded, dad.</p><p><em>- Gasoline apples ... A colossal combination, Baron Mapertis never dreamed of,</em> - the sarcastic thought that came from nowhere drowns in the scream of the horn of an impatient driver, who is prevented from passing by a stalled black SUV with tinted windows.</p><p>- Well, it's better this way ... He will be there all alone! - exclaims the woman, anxiously watching her son pulling out of the trunk a packed backpack.</p><p>- He’ll figure it out, he's a healthy big fellow already, - Martin mutters, clutching a tube with a star map that doesn’t fit in James’s load.</p><p>- Yes, mom, stop it, I'm going to Haver, not to Birmingham, - Jim dodges another kiss from his crying mother, - and this is only a little over two months.</p><p>- Oh, Jimmy, what a pity Davy couldn't come with you! - the woman does not calm down and hugs her son tightly, - promise that you will call!</p><p>- Of course, I will, Mom, I'll even call you, - reluctantly Jim lies, kisses his parents on the cheeks again and gets on the bus, waving his hand goodbye.</p><p>The compartment splashes three times by mercury light when three lanterns take turns looking into the window; pulling back the purple curtain, James sees a low semaphore ahead with a strange lamp, such as can only be seen in hospitals. Sighing, he looks around the neighbors in the cage and, hiding under a scanty government blanket and reads the blog of some physician whom he found in his friends in the profile of his doctor.</p><p>
  <em>“The worst thing about cancer is not working in medicine. Fortunately - or unfortunately - I am an oncologist, and I know for sure: if I have cancer, I will be upset. Perhaps I will be afraid, cry and plump as if not into myself so much that it will all end there, but my family will not sell their last pants in order to provide me with treatment that is as useless as expensive as it is not a secret for me that neither one Israeli clinic and no doctor of vegan-soda-homeopathy sciences will not remove metastases from the heart, liver and cervix, if they happened to be registered there. I am a doctor, and I do not want to indulge myself in the fruitless hopes that there is a treatment that will magically transform terminal stage into thirty years of cloudless life. And I won't exhaust my body with unnecessary medications and procedures, and when one fine day - if I don't die of binge in the same bed with the Tiger Lily stripper - I realize that I'm fucked up, I won't even cry". </em>
</p><p>Sniffling and wiping away the tears that have come through, Jim throws back the blanket - his face is instantly bathed in cool and fresh air - and, turning on "ICE Book Reader Professional" puts his hands over the prickly fabric and covers his eyes.</p><p>
  <em>“Life is such a thing: from the second we are pulled out of the womb we begin our journey to the grave. Yes, there are things like growing up, studying, working, birthdays, but in reality we are just slowly dying. And those who are seriously and irreversibly sick differ from healthy people only in that they die a little faster. And as no one else understands this. Whatever the pinnacle of evolution a person is, he is still mortal, and one day each of us will have to prove this axiom. And what you really don't want is that it doesn't hurt, and that ... ".</em>
</p><p>Abruptly plunging somewhere down, where phiz-gig of about fifty who seemed to be a countess in the daylight snores, his heart pulls Griffith out of his half-asleep like an artist tearing the drapery from a sculpture during a presentation, and James, slightly twisting on an uncomfortable shelf with rubberized mattress with a sheet, changes the playlist from Max Richter to Darkspace, but even dark ambient can't cover the roulade of this unpleasant blonde.</p><p>Once again disturbing the flimsy string cornice, Griffith looks at a deserted, almost uninhabited landscape: behind a wide strip of lifeless sand embankment a lonely house with a shabby roof, broken by rheumatoid arthritis can be seen, standing almost at the very edge of Bristol Bay, a fragile, blackened boat with time blue-black water surface held only by a thin rope wrapped around a half-rotten peg, so reminiscent of islets of pain during drug-induced ebb and flow - almost like in King's "Misery" - and an old Welsh-terrier chained to a long chain hoarsely barks at the entire deserted area, as if trying to drive away strangers from the long-deceased corpse of the owner, as in that horror story told by Robert ...</p><p>
  <strong>June 2008, London, hospital. St. Bartholomew.</strong>
</p><p>- Are you planning to carry out cryopreservation? - the handsome radiologist with short blond hair and thin wrists gives James a quick glance and goes back to filling out the hospital card.</p><p>
  <em>- Thirty-four, regularly cheats on her husband, but won't be with you for sure, even out of pity.</em>
</p><p>- Excuse me? - an unexpected question and an equally unexpected thought, as if it were not his at all, takes James by surprise.</p><p>- You will undergo radiotherapy of the lower body, and the rays will inevitably fall on the reproductive organs, therefore it is recommended to donate sperm for conservation.</p><p>- Um ... My doctor didn't seem to warn me about this, so ...</p><p>
  <em>- Actually, he did. And where does such a habit of ignoring at least more or less useful information come from and remembering garbage? You are even worse than John.</em>
</p><p>- ... In any case, no, preservation will not be needed, I uhm ...</p><p>The girl nods her head in understanding, and now after a few awkward moments, James stands in front of her with his pants down, while she paints his thigh with a scar that has not healed to the end with incomprehensible dots and stripes, constantly checking with the three-dimensional image of the remaining tumors on the monitor of the device.</p><p>
  <strong>July 2008, London, Wardour Street.</strong>
</p><p>Sitting in some Italian cafe, Jim pensively looks at the beetles of cars crawling in the rain and on the machine is stirring a spoonful of coffee that has long been frozen - before his eyes there is still an episode in "The Black Knight" from which he just returned: Batman beats the Joker who is laughing in “you can’t do anything to me.” The characters themselves and their confrontation are either oiled or a quote pay tribute to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle with his Sherlock and Moriarty.</p><p>Through the dense shroud of rain, Griffith notices that one cab is stopping right in front of Angelo's, and it seems to him that <em>someone is looking at him</em> from there.</p><p>
  <strong>July 2008, London, hospital. St. Bartholomew.</strong>
</p><p>Unlike chemical treatment, radiotherapy is much easier for James: he does not collapse from weakness and does not sit for half a day on the jerk, and the surrounding reality does not press so much - Griffith simply arrives at the appointed time to the hospital, undresses, lies quietly for ten minutes under the beams of the apparatus, embarrassedly thanks the radiologist and returns to the rented apartment to exhale, pee a little or freelance and prepare for the next appointment and many hours of infusions in the same clinic - truly now he does not need to stay in the hospital around the clock; it is enough to sit for six hours in an armchair in the company of a couple of old men, who crackle like three grandmas on a bench.</p><p>- And he says to me, they say, “take them one at a time for the rest of your life,” - lowering a sound-muffling sterile mask on his chin and sipping juice from a glass, grumbles Mr. Hall, - I say that there are only two packages, and he told me, c'mere, "I say, for the rest of your life." What an arsehole!</p><p>- A great way for doctors to break the news, Stephen,” grins another old man — fellow countryman of Chloe, Mike and the girls.</p><p>- Hugo Bonneville, keep your hands! - cheerfully like a twelve-year-old girl screeches twisted with arthritis Martha who brought homemade cookies to treat her husband and his fellow misfortunes - including Jamie, when Hugh is an innocent lanky old man who is already finishing treatment for prostate carcinoma, bald as a knee playfully claps her on the ass, as if they were both in their twenties - and playfully punches him on the unused by IV arm.</p><p>- Hey pals, we must not grow old in our dicks, - Mr. Freeman makes his contribution, as if all those gathered are sitting at home tea, and not on infusion therapy in the oncological center.</p><p>- Jude! - Mrs. Bonneville with the same playfulness switches from her husband, and now despite the senile illness it is clear that in her youth she was a real beauty with a thick braid of dark hair, protruding chest and a full set of white teeth in her mouth; looking at them, Griffith is filled with both joy and envy - even his parents, although they were suitable for the Bonneville couple as children, behaved much more primly and according to their age, Jim was not threatened with such a prospect at all - the girl who will endure his character and voluntarily go down the aisle, not 'cause being impregnated.</p><p>Laughing - what he certainly did not expect is the relaxed atmosphere in such an institution - James gets up from his chair and, holding on to the drip, goes to the window to bask in the rays of the sun breaking through the clouds; in front of him there is a beautiful view of a small park - and of a rather beautiful girl sitting on a bench with a book and a thin cigarette.</p><p>The warm July breeze flutters the page and wavy hair of a golden-copper hue, from which she constantly has to remove it from her face with a fragile, graceful hand ... In a word, the second stage of drug therapy is quite successful, except that the head is a little dizzy and the thigh burns unpleasantly, but this is definitely not close to the hell that Jim had to go through in the cancer center when he just entered the stormy waters of the fight against tumor ...</p><p>
  <em>- Rhabdomyosarcoma. Fact is our everything, Jamie.</em>
</p><p>... And his thoughts suddenly become so clear and pure that Griffith in full combat readiness wanders home with a head swelling with ideas, breathing in the unusual smell of a big city; when he gets to his apartment, he sits down on a bench in the courtyard and, having uncorked a bottle of beer and lighting a cigarette - smoking in a rented apartment seems to Jim something piggy - makes scattered notes in a notebook.</p><p>Thinking about how it would be more interesting to write out the relationship of two bosom friends, he raises his head and freezes:<em> someone is looking at him from his window</em>; James even rubs his eyes, shaking off the darkness, and goes up to his modest apartment. Sitting at the computer - he forces himself to take up the book to distract himself from the disturbing vision - Griffith leans back thoughtfully: through the transparent curtains, the distant lights of the big city flicker, and a splinter of the moon spreads in the sky with a dim light.</p><p>And there was something else there - huge, preventing the boat from sailing forward ... Why did he remember this now?</p><p>Having opened the file with the text that he saved on a flash drive back in the winter, being with Milo, James carefully rereads everything once again and alternately compares it with his own story - about the unlucky best man Alan, who is timid in front of a wide audience at the wedding of his best warrior friend Tom.</p><p>The hero of Clavell is undoubtedly better than a clumsy laboratory assistant who does not know what he wants from life, and Griffith reluctantly makes changes to his character - makes him more fit, self-confident and successful.</p><p>Carried away James gradually moves away from both his original hero and Milo's character and unexpectedly for himself remembering the ornate boy in Barts, endows Alan, for whom this name no longer suits, with beautiful dark curls instead of light, licked back hair, expands the lexicon, adds a pinch of sarcasm, cynicism and aristocratic sophistication.</p><p>An ordinary laboratory assistant cannot have such psychological traits - he will be too bored to poke around in excrement and dilute urine with chemical reagents for three pennies, and James, biting his cheek, glaring blankly at the flickering cursor, folding his palms and leaning them against his lower lip, letting his fantasy fly wherever she pleases. Who can work for a handsome young man of extraordinary intelligence, with a sharp tongue, definitely well-read and well-educated, but rather selfish, sociopathic and eccentric? A neurosurgeon? A journalist? An eccentric scientist? Or maybe he's just an unemployed asshole and a major, sucking money from a nouveau riche father?</p><p>And, importantly, what is the name to christen this young man? James leans back in his chair, the back of his head on his folded fingers, a pencil between his teeth like a cigarette. The name ... It should roll on the tongue like a mint candy, pleasantly playing with a beautiful, as if babbling, combination of sounds, and at the same time not be too pretentious, like some Benedict, Archibald or Wilfred.</p><p>
  <em>- If you want to have what you did not have, start doing what you did not do. </em>
</p><p>Shaking his head - what else can hallucinate from these pills - Jim lies down on the bed and, turning off the TV, rubs the burning ointment into his thigh and pulls out a pretty tattered notepad for notes.</p><p><em>- Look at that, Jamie. Quiet, calm, peaceful... Isn't it hateful? My brain rots..</em>.</p><p>- Huh? What? - no, it still didn't seem; Jim turns over his shoulder and, cursing, turns on the flashlight on his mobile phone and sweeps the whole small room with a beam of light, and for a split second it seems to him as if he sees some flickering from the side of the chair by the window.</p><p><strong>August 2008, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong> </p><p>
  <em>The lights go off in the bathroom, water gets into the ears, nose and throat, and when it drips onto the hand, it feels like needles are driving into the skin. Hearing someone's voice rustling something inarticulate, James turns over his shoulder, and in flashes of X-rays - or thunderstorms? - he sees a moonlit path of a frozen pond, in the middle of which there are seedlings beaten by hail and a crumpled figure at the window; its fingers are clenched into a fist, like the cells of which it is composed strive towards the singularity and at the same time - towards him, just about - and hit right in the face, because the air is too viscous to deviate ... </em>
</p><p>... But instead of hard knuckles, something soft is very gentle, even delicately touches the cheek, and a quiet and plaintive squeak is heard.</p><p>- Well, what's up now? - not really waking up asks Jim and without opening his eyes moves closer to the wall, making room for the cat; it immediately jumps on the blanket and stomps a little, then turns around, placing ears, neck and sacrum under the owner's arms, and begins to purr in the uterus, but after a while he meows again, - shut up and endure my affection, mein Schatz.</p><p>Tom gets to its feet and, arching his back in an arc, begins to back away, from which it almost falls to the floor and releases his claws to stay on the bed, and leaves several deep points on his forearm.</p><p>- Well, okay, okay, - sighing, Griffith fumbles for sneakers with his feet and, adjusting the bandage, goes after every now and then turning around his favorite, - what now? Did the King take a crap?</p><p>- Meow!</p><p>- There's no one to feed you, my lil' monster? - going down to the kitchen, holding on to the railing and jumping up the steps so as not to bend his injured leg, James continues to go over the options, - or are you scared of a fly again?</p><p>- Meow! - already more demanding, waving its tail in all directions, while waiting below.</p><p>- Did you spill water while running after dust, you brute?</p><p>The drinking bowl standing on a puddle really turns out to be empty, and Griffith, having poured himself and the cat a drink, sits on a chair by the window, under which there are bowls, watching the pet begin to lap milk, after dipping its paw into it. Listening to the rustling, dripping sounds, Jim pulls out bread and butter from the bar refrigerator to make a sandwich - Tom instantly gets out, begging for ham, and looks at the owner like a fool, having received a piece of bread.</p><p>- Kiss my grits, - Jim grins and, grabbing a comb and a bag of treats, returns to the bedroom - now it's slower, going up is more difficult than going down: he need to bend his leg anyway, and he has to work actively with whole body, from which his back begins to ache, and not only - head is also spinning, either from the two-month freedom and loneliness that has fallen on head, or from a complete misunderstanding of what to be treated for and how to write further.</p><p>Lazily tugging at the cat's fishing rod which no longer contains half of the feathers and rustlers, Griffith lies with his stomach down and, watching a predator wake up in a lazy fat cat, thinks that he is undergoing another change: his inner voice - or what else can one call what a person hears when he thinks or reads to himself or just dreams - has changed: it seems to have ceased to belong to Jim, moreover, he began to come from outside, practically enter into a dialogue with him, as a few weeks ago, when he looked at the stars through a telescope in the backyard of his family at home. James cannot say for sure, but he assumes that this voice began to sound a little different than before, and becomes similar to the intonation of that young man who was indignant at everyone and everything from the public garden at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London: impetuous, tenacious, consistent, and even and voices thoughts that Jamie himself would never have thought of, as if someone else had settled in his head - a stranger and borrowed...</p><p>
  <em>- Nonsense, how could that even come to your mind, Jamie? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>... Following.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. V. Sine prece, sine pretio, sine poculo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>And all the woe that moved him so</p><p>That he gave that bitter cry,</p><p>And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,</p><p>None knew so well as I:</p><p>For he who lives more lives than one</p><p>More deaths than one must die.</p><p>(c) O.Wilde, "The ballad of Reading Gaol"</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>September, 2008, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>The windows are almost ringing with laughter from Clemens, Maddison and several other children: - on James's birthday - without his request again - they arrange a natural gathering of their entire rather large family, and this time they make him the head of the children's table.</p><p>Usually this position belonged to Milo or Bill, but this time both could not come because of the busy schedule at work, and Davy unfortunately also could not escape, as he had to urgently take to Haverfordwest his grandmother, whose condition worsened seriously.</p><p>It’s a little offensive, but Griffith is already accustomed to an unhealthy need from such parents’s disregard for his repeated wish from year to year - <em>“Mom, please don’t throw up the gypsy wedding again and invite the whole bee swarm to Chloe's jam pies and another amateur activity of girls”</em> mothers to create hospitable chaos with or without reason, as well as to attempts to organize his personal life, inviting their daughters to any more or less family holiday (and even once a young man named Mark very, very long time ago: they really became friends, and even five of them went to Birmingham on his eighteenth birthday) their girlfriends and acquaintances, most of them - "nothingtolookatties", as James affectionately called them to himself.</p><p>This time mother decided to introduce her son to Janine Hawkins - a pretty girl either from London or from somewhere in Sussex, with slightly bulging brown eyes, long hair and simply breathtaking shapes, but really short on brains, so short that James who had sex only with a hand for the last three, if not four years can hardly endure the endless stream of her chatter and, being embarrassed by her empty head and outright obsession, politely retreats into the house under the first harmless pretext that comes to mind - wipe off the smudged blue-pink speck of aqua makeup from his cheek (a trace from the grateful kiss of Maddy's friend from the kids club) and bring juice for children and another bottle of apple cider for adults.</p><p>The noise of the guests can be heard even in the bathroom - it is a bit annoying - but James tries to ignore them. He smiles at his own reflection, running his hand over the growing crew cut of hair that has not yet begun to curl, it has only become even thicker and harder than before chemotherapy, and, which cannot but rejoice, has acquired a dirty reddish tint with a barely noticeable copper tint instead of dark blond. In any case, he received his best gift - partial remission - “<em>MRI and X-rays are clean, the blood is also good, we will continue chemotherapy orally for preventive purposes</em>”. Kicked a sarcoma's ass. Gave it a spanking. Inflicted real pain on the cancer.</p><p>Apparently Jim was tired or slightly overdid with alcohol, or the body simply lost the habit of not being fed pills for a week already - he should go to the doctor, but he will do it a little later - or maybe all at once. Otherwise how one can explain that the reflection smiles at him a little differently than usual: implausible, feigned and cold - this is how introverts who from childhood have been taught to stretch their mouths "for pic to granny" - grin and <em>wink</em> at him?</p><p>Perhaps this is already a reason to fret but Griffith does not want to spoil his mood: instead of this he plays with the children and more or less young guests who found the older generation too boring, playing blind man's buffs with a joyful smile.</p><p>Limping slightly he whirls around with a blue scarf made of fine knitwear from Paul Smith - today's present, he does not remember from whom exactly - with his eyes across the backyard, focusing on sounds: "clap-clap" from the left, "ha-ha-ha" in front, the rustle of artificial feathers on the right, the vigorous "ding-ding" of the bicycle bell behind, <em>the sound of the sea, the rustling of sleeping bags on the tarpaulin of the tent, the crackle of a fire, the jingle of flasks in a pouch that has fallen to the ground, the rustle of tires on a bumpy road, the measured click of the rubberized tip of a cane about bridge boards, hurried and frightened steps, looking for something in the night and the grass</em> - from all sides.</p><p>
  <strike><em>- Uncle James, wait ...</em> </strike>
</p><p>- Jimmy, Jimmy, aaja, aaja! - deep male laughter comes from <em>somewhere</em>, and Griffith turns sharply to the sound and tries to catch this fan of the classic Indian cinematography, but stumbles over something, and his fingers only fleetingly touch the silk curly hair, velvet, smoothly shaved skin of the chin and satin collar not buttoned with a pair of top buttons of a shirt.</p><p>As always, for as long as Griffith can remember, the clamor among the relatives hiding under a canopy from the frozen rain stops suddenly, as if someone presses the "mute" button when a cake with candles already lit - blue and white, always blue for James, with a thin purple inscription "penblwydd hapus" - is put on the table in front of the birthday boy.</p><p>A long tradition of their family, which originates from the generation before last if not more: it doesn't matter if you are five, fifty-five, or all one hundred and five - all the same, in front of you they will put a sweet structure made of cakes and cream, completely studded with candles.</p><p>The evening silence is broken by a discordant chorus singing the long-sore mouth "Happy birthday to you", and James, while making a wish to swim across his river and come out as a winner, blows out tiny fires with force - <em>stop, what the hell there are twenty-eight of them, he's twenty-seven today</em> - and extinguishes them all but one.</p><p>
  <em>What the hell is going on?! </em>
</p><p>Griffith feels pretty damn stupid - wake up, he cannot cope with such a easy-peasy stuff - and taking in more air into his lungs tries to blow again, but chokes on his breath and goes into a throat-tearing fit of coughing so strong that nausea rolls in his throat, and James barely has time to leave the feast and limp to the bathroom, so as not to disgrace himself and vomit in front of the guests.</p><p>As soon as he bends over the toilet, an unpleasant cold pours over his back, and a narrow palm and a rough, woolen fabric of his coat slightly damp from the rain touches his skin.</p><p><em>- Unable to contain the joy inside, Jamie?</em>  - Jesus Fucking Christ: only attempts of the subconscious to enter into polemics with him are now lacking.</p><p>- GTFO, - James wheezes and bends over the tank again in a spasm, wincing at the scalding mucous bile, bitter from alcohol and glamorgan sausage, which he hated, but after all ...</p><p>
  <em>“- Jim, Aunt Jane tried, to make it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>- So what? People tried to make my beer too ... " </em>
</p><p>Good Lord, as if he was seven, not twenty-seven ...</p><p>... Catching his breath and rinsing his mouth, Griffith languidly trudges into his room and falls flat on the bed, arms and legs outstretched like a starfish, and seems to fall asleep - the sickness after vomiting gradually dissolves in the rustle of clothes that seem to him, unhurried steps, the smell of exclusive perfume and expensive tobacco; for some unknown reason the ghost of the presence of an outsider does not alarming - on the contrary, it gives a feeling of comfort, security and a little light sadness about something unfulfilled.</p><p>James looks at the map of the starry sky glowing in the dark above his head and listens to how gradually, as the guests leave, their house is slowly filled with calmness and silence - the voices of the girls come to naught, the last plates ringing, the mattress springs creak under the weight of the bodies. An aimlessly wandering gaze accidentally stumbles upon almost his zodiacal constellation Leo - he was born a little ahead of time, with his feet ahead - a clumsy trapezoid with a small hook - asterism "Sickle", and Griffith on the tip of his toes so as not to wake anyone goes down into the yard.</p><p>Unfortunately, the sky is still covered with clouds and James, swearing, steps back a couple of steps without taking his annoyed gaze from the dirty gray shroud, like the thickness of water hiding the lights from him, and through the thin sole of his trampled sneakers he feels that he has stepped on which - that stick which when studied turns out to be nothing more than that same damn unflowing candle, which has not burned out an inch.</p><p><em>"As if on loan"</em> - fleetingly sweeps through my head, from which it becomes hard and uncomfortable in his soul.</p><p><em>- “Happy birthday, Jamie,”</em> - the night gasps in the back of his head, and Griffith, taking his eyes off  a piece of paraffin, looks up.</p><p>There is no limit to his joy: suddenly the sky is crystal clear, and he can easily see how an orange unnamed star referred to in catalogs as "HD 87884" - a kind of restless little sister of Proxima Centauri - bashfully hiding behind the revolving oval of Alpha Leo - Regula.</p><p>
  <strong>October, 2008, Pembrokeshire, Haverfordwest.</strong>
</p><p>- Oh, Jimmy, hello sweetie! - Janine answers the call even before the second beep sounded.</p><p>- Hi, - Jim is embarrassed, not expecting the girl to answer so quickly, - I wanted to ask ... Well, in general, how are you there?</p><p>- O, great! Except for Mary ...</p><p>James rolls his eyes and slightly removes the phone from his ear and occasionally hums in surprise, understands and snorts indignantly, listening to the stream of Hawkins complaints about either a colleague or a friend, boredom in Pembrokeshire and a too tight new dress, and imagines how Janine looks without her outfit. When the whine ends, Jim finally has time to insert his line:</p><p>- Are you still in the Stack, Janine?</p><p>- Oh, yes, Jimmy, I'm here until about mid-November, what did you want?</p><p>- Well ... - Griffith is embarrassed even more: to be honest he is not a successful womanizer and the experience of communicating with the fair sex is extremely scarce, and now James is shy like a schoolboy - this is the third attempt to invite Hawkins on a date, and tolerate another failure will be simply miserable, especially against the background of friends who easily and naturally make contact with any young lady they like; most of all in this field - oddly enough - is Davey, who has been meeting with Melissa for five years, and now and then has time to find an adventure on the side, is successful in it.</p><p>- I just thought ... Well, maybe we go to the movies?</p><p>- O-o-oh, - Janine draws capriciously, - again to some screen-shit?</p><p>- Well, let's pick <em>not</em> some screen-shit, - without showing the appearance that he is somewhat jarred by the girl's use of obscene words, James good-naturedly shrugs his shoulders and scrolls the site with the schedule of sessions of the local cinema, - what will be your positive answer about "The Other Boleyn Girl"?</p><p>The film is predictably dreary: the director misinterprets half of the novel, the actors are unconvincing and annoying with a nasty American pronunciation, but Janine apparently is in utter delight and touchingly hugs James, teasing with a pliable body, and in the moment of reconciliation between the heroes she kisses him with lips salty from popcorn, and the sweetish from cola tongue unceremoniously invades his mouth, mixing the taste of soda with the beer he has drunk, and pleasantly glides with the piercing balls on his own tongue, which makes the lower abdomen seem to fill with hot water, the scrotum contracts, the penis becomes painfully cramped in old jeans, and hands by themselves are stretching under her skirt to seamless panties, and it seems a little more - and he will <em>finally</em>... but the manicured sharp claws with a cat's grip dig into the wrist:</p><p>- Jimmy, not now! We can be seen!</p><p>And then - half an hour later - once again, like in high school, behind the cinema and in the back seat of his father's car: from the outflow of blood to the penis, the fingertips releasing from the loops of the buttons of a cashmere blouse smelling of powdery perfume slightly grow numb, a blissful ache blooms in the groin when the palms stroke the delicate lace of nylon stockings and juicy, fat hips, and only a delightful, exciting silence reigns in the head when he unbuttons the front-close of a smooth bra and grab the hard nipple of the full breast - soft, somewhat reminiscenting of a milk-cream panna-cotta with his lips.</p><p>Having knocked Janine into the back seat and lifting the hem of her skirt - he is not even surprised that she is no longer wearing an underwear - Jim settles so that both of them are comfortable and throwing the girl's leg on his shoulder, puts his parts in and plunges into a warm and mind-blowing tightness of Janine's soggy cave.</p><p>- Oh, Jimmy, darling, your buddy is much more than friends of yours.</p><p>- What?!</p><p>
  <strong>October, 2008, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>The house is filled with the rustling of bagged sweets, the clinking of dishes in the kitchen and the smell of homemade sweets: caramelized apples, pumpkin cookies and traditional muffins with evil spirits painted in icing. Here one can have Jack Skeleton and all sorts of reptiles like spiders, bats, ghosts, witch's hats and cemetery crosses - very strange, somewhat reminiscent of crossed canes because of the sloppy lines coming out of a pastry syringe in the inept hands of nieces.</p><p>To the cheerful songs from "The Nightmare Before Christmas" James, Clem and Maddie make the whole Griffith family out of pumpkins - more precisely, the girls draw faces with a black marker and pick out the soft light orange flesh with ice cream spoons, and then Jim removes the tops and neatly carves out the painted windows of the eyes and mouths, along the way telling nieces about the history of Halloween; of course they do not really listen to his narration - they are more concerned with the process of making pumpkin mum, dad, grandparents, each other and for sure their beloved uncle, who comes out more like a flattened idol from Easter Island, to spongy ulcers eaten away by the salt of the sea winds.</p><p>When everything is ready, the three of them fix the candles inside the crafts and light them, and for some reason James is not surprised that his own candle - black with sparkles, reminiscent of space (where was it only dug out?) - does not even think to light up, but in his soul it still gets restless. This unreasonable, unnecessary and a little painful anxiety continues to torment Jim all the noisy evening, the deaf and lonely night in which the stars were visible only on his poster and the whole next day spent on the final preparations for the main Halloween entertainment - the night "carols".</p><p>A few hours before the generally accepted time in Stackpole the doorbells and the joyful shouts of the children begin their: "trick or treat, Mr. James!" , and he pours treats back and forth from the heart not forgetting that Greg can only be given donuts and apples - ordinary ones , without caramel, Sarah recognizes exclusively gingerbread cookies and licorice sticks, and Molly is crazy about chocolate and homemade honey marshmallows.</p><p>In the central square - more precisely, in the vacant lot behind the guest house - Stackpole is surprisingly crowded, and it is difficult to understand who is more at the holiday: indigenous people or tourists from big cities? But, what cannot but rejoice, the people around are relatively sober in anticipation of the curfew, when the children recover to sleep, and it will be possible to start real fun with deciliters of beer and apple liqueur, dancing by the fires and girls in sexy costumes. J</p><p>ames walks in a bright orange - l<em>ike a blazing sun setting behind the reefs of Barafundle Bay in early autumn</em> - astronaut's costume, trying not to show that the thigh is shooting from the waist to the knee with every step, and keeps the girls incredibly happy with a good catch, dressed in Snow White and the Tinker Bell fairy, holding hands and going home, when around the bend they are surrounded by a noisy and definitely drunk company dressed to smithereens.</p><p>His eye mechanically snatches out people who are out of the general promenade: a man in a costume of a flowing clock, as if descended from a painting by Salvador Dali, a grimy boy with rather realistic wings, a man with a bull's head, Darth Vader in a Han Solo costume and some visiting one-legged guy depicting a bitten Gingy - <em>a burnt-out man</em> - from "Shrek": it's even a bit a pity that he is not alone but with small children and cannot examine the outfits of these idle revelers more closely.</p><p>They are already going out onto the street next to their house when a tall young shit-faced drunk man in a pirate costume unexpectedly falls out of a gateway to meet them, hanging on a pop-eyed goner in a white coat and goggles, like a laboratory chemist. Jim tenses and looks worriedly from strangers to girls and back, regretting not having brought anything with him for self-defense.</p><p>- Trick or treat? - the ragged improvisation on the theme of Blackbeard asks in a tangled tongue - <em>Redbeard, Jamie, Redbeard</em>! - with makeup smeared over an unshaven face... No, he’s not drunk, he’s high, and his intonations seem vaguely familiar to James.</p><p>- Don't touch them, Shezza, c'mon ... Oh I do apologize! - the chemist grabs the companion by the elbow and tries to pull him aside, but he rests and pulls in the opposite direction, so that both begin to circle around Jim and the girls, accompanied by the incessant muttering of the pirate, confused in his own words:</p><p>- Sick or prick? Young or weak?</p><p>When the pirate finally focuses on James and glares at him with eyes hidden under the colored lenses, Griffith sees the edges of eloquently constricted pupils, visible within the transparent edge of the painted silicone.</p><p>He sits down on his haunches and, slightly staggering, with an enigmatic smile gazes directly at Maddison who has burst into tears, and immediately grabbed her younger sister Clemens.</p><p>Jim, holding the girls' hands tightly, cautiously takes a few steps back, looking around in confusion and realizing that alone with two guys - especially since at least one of them is on drugs - he cannot cope, and he will not be able to leave the alley either - the nieces are still too small for such a march, especially Maddy, and he cannot take both of them in his arms and run away because of his leg. This, unfortunately, is not a psychosomatic limp like some London blogger he stumbled upon recently. As luck would have it, except for them, there is no one else on the street - there is no one even to call for help.</p><p>- Guys, please, don't. We're just go, okay? - Griffith mutters almost pleadingly and, without letting go of Clem's small hand, looks for a wallet in the pocket of his suit - he seems to have fifty pounds with him - but Shezza smiles affectionately and says in a completely sober voice:</p><p>- One side is golden, another is reddish, a worm eats its middle-core. What is it, Schneewittchen? James and the girls stare dumbfounded at the pirate. Both cease shedding tears, as soon as they hear a simple rhyme chanted - after all, fairies are so small that only one emotion can fit in them and they can die if close people stop believing in them.</p><p>- Apfle! - joyfully exclaims one, and the pirate  from nowhere, as if from air or emptiness like a real magician materializes a large Gala apple - light yellow on one side and soft pink on the other - and hands it to the girl.</p><p>- Maddy, don’t… - James breaks off mid-sentence and barely restrains himself from rushing into the attack when the chemist hands the pirate a red "wenger" (just like the one he gave Davey in 89) - on the sub cortex of consciousness, an alarming picture immediately flashes for a second: the carved letters "IOU" - <em>or is there a heart instead of O</em>? - on the poisoned pulp) - with the blade already pulled out, but he only cuts off a small piece from the apple and sends it into his mouth, winking slyly:</p><p>- Look, Houston, everything is alright, there is no poison, no illness, no danger.</p><p>And there is something soothingly quiet and dear in this action, like their modest front garden and fiddling with jam and dried slices for compote.</p><p>- I would never harm a child, Houston, - Shezza says aloud, casting a keen and strange look at Jim, and immediately turns to Clem cheerfully, - who lives in Neverland and does not grow at all, flies to the second star, follows him orders to fly?</p><p>- Peter Pan! - the girl, like her younger sister, spreads into a smile and without a twinge of conscience, accepts a transparent bag with red gummy bugs from the hands of the pirate.</p><p>The strange guy shakes his head in a funny way, from which a curly lock comes out from under the pirate cocked hat and red bandana, and loses his balance, but the chemist quickly catches him by the elbow and helps him to his feet.</p><p>- And now you, Houston. Which of the sons of Zeus was struck by Darth Vader? - blurts out Shezza, pushing away the companion and not taking his eyes off the taken aback Griffith.</p><p>Sons of Zeus, somehow related to the Sith Lord? What the fuck?</p><p>- Uh, er ... - Jim pulls in confusion, and the pirate goes into unhealthy laughter, handing him a box of matches.</p><p>Still laughing, he lifts his hat as a sign of goodbye, grabs the chemist's companion by the hand and drags him around the corner. And Griffith, stunned and frightened, opens the gift, which turned out to be a "boat" with a surprise: it contains a charred piece of paper with the numbers 46809, buried in the heads, like a fragile figurine in foam balls.</p><p>- It's Mimas, Jamie! Mimas! - the cry of Shezza is heard in the last October night, who immediately began to sing: - old McDonald had a farm. I-O-I-O-U!</p><p><strong>November 2008, Pembrokeshire, Karyu Cheriton, Stackpole Church</strong>.</p><p>- Imagine that pain is a ray of light piercing you from the inside, - a plump black-haired woman in a strict suit with a pink ribbon on the lapel of her jacket broadcasts from the rostrum, - it passes through your body, purifying your flesh and spirit ...</p><p>- Bullshit, - snorts a ruffled young man with a bandana on his head, sitting in the front row right in front of Jim - pale, thin, somewhat reminiscent of Chloe from Fight Club.</p><p>- ... Healing them in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ ...</p><p>- Nonsense! - leaning forward, he repeats a little louder.</p><p>-… Remember, brothers and sisters of mine: the world is not worth money and politicians, but the sick and disabled - martyrs who suffer together with the son of God. Do you believe, my brothers and sisters, that you suffer with our Lord Jesus Christ for the sins of men, atoning them, enlightening them? - embarrassed, continues the preacher, who clearly heard the parishioner's remark.</p><p>- Fuck me running if I don’t believe, - Griffith chuckles under his breath, filled with skepticism and crossing his arms over his chest; hearing his stinging remark, the guy turns around and slaps him on the shoulder with a grin and, bending over, whispers in his ear:</p><p>- You also think that we are just peeing in the ears, bro?</p><p>- Fuckery as it finest, - James says in the same quiet voice, - this cow has no idea what she is fucking talking about.</p><p>- Healthy bitch.</p><p>- Pain cannot be a ray of light in any way. It looks more like a demon that has taken over the body. As in "the Exorcist." We all - except Mrs. Moo - are obsessed, bro.</p><p>- ... And when you leave this mortal world, believe, my brothers and sisters, that you will enter the Kingdom of the Lord ...</p><p>- My dear friends! - standing up - now Jim sees that he does not have an arm and part of a shoulder - and turning to the parishioners, the young man shouts indignantly, - this is the finest <em>bullshit</em>!</p><p>- And this, my brothers and sisters, is fear, there is hatred, it is the Unclean….</p><p>- In the days of Francois the First, wise and kind giants were born in the country, and one of their tasks was to rid the world of pedants, fools and obscurantists, - the guy proclaims, going up to the stage and unbuttoning his fly, - and for this they urinated on them, albeit from the bottom.</p><p>- Begone! - turning white with rage, the preacher splashes saliva - at this time one of the regulars, deeply believing and absolutely incurable Martha Sissons begins to cry, hiding her face in her hands, - begone, you evil spirit!</p><p>- There is not even Christ in Paradise! He sinned! - the rebel pokes his finger at her, - who didn't wash his hands before eating? Who was hot-tempered and harsh? Who did not blame his disciples for plucking ears of corn and if they were on the Sabbath?</p><p>- Neddy, calm down! - someone's hoarse, tired cry is heard.</p><p>- There's no Christ in you! Evil spirit! Evil spirit!</p><p>- Fuck you with this crap, all of you! - spits out Ned and swiftly leaves the church, in which complete silence has reigned, broken only by the speaker's heavy breathing and Martha's sobs.</p><p>Sighing, Griffith pulls on the parka and also goes out - to be honest with himself, he did not like these meetings from the very beginning: the imposition of the Bible and religion as such together with the parishioners instead of support did not evoke a feeling of cohesion, enthusiasm, or even humility; on the contrary, it seemed that if God exists, then He either does not care about His creation, or God is cancer.</p><p>The unfortunate brother is still standing on the porch, shoving an empty sleeve into his pocket and, along the way, fetching something out of it; hearing Jim's footsteps, he turns around halfway and, without removing the intact cigarette from his mouth, says:</p><p>- I just want to learn how to knock fire out of a normal lighter: "turbo" is like selling ice to the inhabitants of Antarctica. Don't you think so, colleague?</p><p>- In what sense?</p><p>- Stock up on popcorn, set this bitch on fire along with her book and icons and see if she ascends to her vaunted heaven.</p><p>- Sorry? - Griffith helps the guy with the lighter and lights a cigarette himself, shivering from the cold wind and the nasty drizzle, which looks beautiful only against the background of the orange light of the lantern left behind as they begin to slowly walk towards the holiday hotel.</p><p>- The door opens inward. Someone, maybe, will have time to run out, and then "Carrie" will start - the bastards pounding from the backs will press the closer ones, the traffic jam will begin, and everyone will die, - Ned chuckles and shrugs, - no, don’t think I’m a sadist and I wish everybody to die. It's just a relief for bros, and cunts like that fat cow will slam their shitty fishy slut forever.</p><p>- Well ... maybe there is a reason for this, - Jim draws vaguely, - but I definitely wouldn't kill for the sake of gloating ... but for anything.</p><p><strong>November, 2008, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole</strong>.</p><p>Jim almost hisses with annoyance: in search of a name for the main character he even borrowed from Chloe a book that she bought while carrying Clemens, but all he could achieve was further confirmation that writing is no easier than motherhood. One way or another, non-Alan remains so for now, as if he is You-Know-Who who should remain nameless for the time being.</p><p>Edmund? It does not murmur, but rather knocks with the cables of the sails on the wooden side of the pirate ship. Joseph hums, Charles shimmers, not like cinnamon-lemon caramel, but more like cough drop. Sheldon is like an e-cigarette or non-alcoholic beer. Griffith remembers Shezza and thinks that if you elevate to Shezard, it turns out very much even nothing, but, while the court and the case, decides to temporarily call non-Alan just "Sh."</p><p>On the night of Guy Fawkes angry and annoyed James crosses out another fruitless day in the calendar, both in terms of finding a normal job and in the writing field, and drags into the shower. The question of how to name the hero - <em>should solve the problem, their final problem</em> - revolves around a stuck plate in his head, and on a sudden brightly and distinctly as if on a monitor screen he sees - or rather feels - since it is impossible to see clearly, as if Sh. to the last must remain a kind of anonymous, the face of his protagonist, distorted by rage, with eyes sparkling with anger and impatience, when he forcefully kicks the sprawled in front of him old London cabman called Jeff Hope, who is suffering from aneurysm.</p><p>Closing his eyes Griffith puts his face and frozen palms under the slowly heating jets of water, but a moment before he closes his eyelids it seems to him that names are looming on the walls covered with steam - but they are all from other people's stories of Milo and his father, not of his own; the old man knows exactly what Sh. needs, this tall, handsome man in an expensive woolen coat, and his name is also aware, and this infuriates Jim even more.</p><p>- I want a name, - he says at the same time as Sh., squeezing out a cheap body gel into his palm, and - not aloud, but only in his head and to himself, - come on, you're not so useless yet, I need ...</p><p>- NAME! - the subconscious gives an angry scream, harsh and demanding, confident and assertive, while the old man cradles the shoulder shot by his friend Sh., and his glasses slide off that they dangle on one ear.</p><p>- No...</p><p>- You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you, - Sh. hisses and exposes an even row of pearly as if calf's teeth in a predatory grin, as soon as he steps on the bleeding wound of the defeated but still not surrendered enemy. But James still does not hear his cry: he is completely absorbed in contemplation of how from the rapid movement of Sh. the hem of his coat and silk of dark curls beautifully soar into the air, like dry sedge from a sharp gust of the sea breeze, and a loosely pulled blue scarf reveals a twitching Adam's apple and a vein throbbing with adrenaline, beating under the three neat moles on his neck, just like James's, - <em>give me a name</em>.</p><p>Water gets into his eyes, and James drowns in a strange sensation as if he is watching what is happening through the two windows between them on one side, and at the same time he cannot take his eyes off those damn moles that he has never loved, until the world from the huge and incomprehensible collapses into a one singular point of the duplicity of consciousness and the one-pointedness of the desire of two entities - <em>yes, exactly, desire</em> - and all this is superimposed on the memory of Janine's skin - <em>fucking whore, dirty cunt</em>, - soft and pliable like a well-fried veal - J<em>esus fucking Christ, this goddamned cute bastard, why always this goddamned cute bastard</em> ...</p><p>James closes his eyes again, lost in the multidimensionality that has overwhelmed his mind and finds himself in the touch of his fingers still cool from the gel to his neck, collarbones, narrow and pale chest with a beautiful constellation of five moles, so similar to Cassiopeia - <em>look, sir boss, it's Cassie, the lady in the rocking chair</em> - slipping lower and lower towards the copper wire of sparse, coarse hair growing from the navel and getting thicker and closer to the groin and finally to the listlessly lifted cock gradually swelling from blood flow.</p><p>Janine's soft, loose, juicy ass and the same tits with dark coffee-colored nipples - <em>no milk, with sugar, I'll be on the top</em> - and bony, like his, just not so skinny, Sh.'s body and, which makes James much more the obvious response is his overbearing, subduing voice.</p><p>Grasping the tense and swollen penis, James bites his lip and slowly moves his palm up and down, squeezing out drops of lubricant, and with his free hand strokes the skin of the abdomen, slightly flabby from rapid weight loss, the contracted scrotum, lower and lower and, touching his thigh, feels: something there it is <em>not alright</em>, there is something that <em>should not be</em>, as if the body got lost in resentment against this cocksucker Norton, a literary fiasco and in his spontaneous excitement, which now lumped on the surface of the skin with soft, painless bumps.</p><p>
  <em>WHAT?! </em>
</p><p>Hoping it’s not a mistake or a hallucination, he opens his eyes and stares down at his ugly torso, a long penis with a small mole next to the bellend, and skinny legs with wacky, flipper-like feet, red with hot water. He forcefully pulls back the curtain with seagulls blocking the light of the lamp and just like that, with unwashed gel, falls out onto the shabby blue rug between the sink and the washing machine, immediately getting goosebumps from the cold air after the steam, and it seems to him that in the foggy window he sees the mocking look of Sh.</p><p>James hastily wipes himself off with a bald towel, carefully and scrupulously palpates his thigh, and then announces the walls of the empty - of course, everyone burns a scarecrow in the main square - house with a hoarse groan - he will not confuse these swellings with anything.</p><p>
  <strong>November 2008, hospital. St. Bartholomew, London.</strong>
</p><p>- Can you just say what happened to me exactly? - Jim asks Dr. Stamford, who is looking at fresh MRI, point-blank, - what triggered the relapse?</p><p>- Mr. Griffith, - adjusting his glasses, the doctor opens his hospital card, - this is not a relapse, you were not in the time frame of remission. We were just able to ... um ... do the regression. In any case, we see that almost nine months of treatment has been quite successful. You just need to continue taking medications, perhaps in slightly increased doses, and after a course of chemotherapy and radiotherapy we will see how your tumor is behaving, after which most likely we will operate.</p><p>- Will you cut it off entirely?</p><p>- Mr. Griffith, amputation will be performed only in the case of active metastasis and invasion, but this is the worst possible scenario, and clearly is not your story.</p><p>- So what will we do now? - Jim grabs life by the horns: the prospect of being left without a leg still scares him - well, who will need him ... like that? - tell me specifically, like to a fool.</p><p>- A course of chemistry - intravenous cyclophosphamide, vincristine and prednisolone, X-ray irradiation, votrient and observation, and then an operation to remove the germinated fascial neoplasms. Then in a month you will come again for another course.</p><p>Nodding and thanking Dr. Stamford, Jamie returns to his room to a stalwart negro Wesley with shiny skin and a bandage on his roughly knitted face, a silent Indian with an unpronounceable name always lying face to the wall, and a very young eighteen-year-old Irishman Seamus.</p><p>- ... Journalism is a peculiar direction, but then you will have more opportunities to start publishing, - the dark-skinned patient broadcasts competently, sitting on the boy's bed, looking at him with all his eyes, now and then touching the hefty lump under the jaw, - however, they will make you a prostitute writing to order.</p><p>- Do you think so, Mr. Warton?</p><p>- Well, it's the same as if you wanted to be an artist, but if you just go to study, then it's not a fact that you will retain your identity. So, if I were you, I would choose not journalism but linguistics.</p><p>The chatter in the ward tires, and James throwing his parka goes out into the street for smocking, and suddenly sees the same girl on one of the benches; sitting nearby and wondering that their lengths of stay in the hospital overlap - on the other hand, why not - Jim, out of the corner of his eye, not daring to look directly, watches the patient sit with an eternal book, holding the collar of his coat at the neck with a thin hand so as not to blew out - a miniature, melting gentle angel with slightly frowned red eyebrows upright, with whom one can neither chat nor touch.</p><p>
  <em>"She is an angel </em>
</p><p>
  <em>no one knows </em>
</p><p>
  <em>only I can see the Lady of the Door </em>
</p><p>
  <em>they cannot walk along her </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bridge of Thread they fall from the weight of their crimes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Like bloated and ugly corpses </em>
</p><p>
  <em>their sins she devours them </em>
</p><p>
  <em>sin and sinner alike </em>
</p><p>
  <em>she saves me she is an angel"... </em>
</p><p>Angry with himself - Davy or Milo would've already spinned her round to have sex in no time, and he is shy even to speak with her - Griffith runs his hand through his hair and catches himself that in a hospital setting he did not even bother combing his hair, and now he looks like a sloppy fool, and pulling on his hood he stares at the phone when the girl herself gives a voice:</p><p>- Come on, you are very normal with whirlwinds.</p><p>James shudders and looks around - is she really talking to <em>him</em>?</p><p>- How shy you are, - the angel laughs, revealing slightly crooked white teeth with long fangs, closes the book and slaps on the bench seat, - come on, sit down with me, let's have a chat.</p><p>- I'm not shy, - putting the smartphone in his pocket he sits down next to her and stretches out his hand, - James.</p><p>- Laura, - she puts a soft hand in his, and Griffith cannot restrain herself - and gently kisses the girl's red from the cold hand.</p><p>- Dern? Palmer?</p><p>- Brealey. And you - James Bond, I guess?</p><p>- Din, - the name of the porn actor pops out of his mouth faster than the brain works, and Jim, choking and blushing like crawfish, corrects himself, - Griffith. Are you not frozen yet?</p><p>- My blouse is hooked, - the girl answers, and James has something inside him: why did she say that? After all, he immediately wants to see what color of the blouse, what it was made of, whether the stitches on the shoulders bristled, whether it was tied with rhombuses or pigtails, while Brealey either admitted playfully or flirted froze.</p><p>- Well, why are you sitting here? - James in a gentlemanly way offers the lady an elbow, walks with her along the paths cleared of snow, trying not to limp.</p><p>- Because I can, - Laura's eyes are fascinating: hazel with incredible green, bright and lively, - I'm just alone in the room now.</p><p>- Well, I would have watched a movie, I don't know, or read the same book, just no one bothers ...</p><p>- That's a little different, - Brealey interrupts, - loneliness is very depressing for me.</p><p>Griffith's breath catches: is this a complaint or a direct hint? Hoping for the latter and opposing him - it’s painfully she shows herself in a slutty light - he suggests:</p><p>- Let's go to you? If it is okay.</p><p>- I think they'll let you in, - agrees the lit up girl, - but when you're bored, what do you do? Are you reading? Playing?</p><p>- Well, nothing interesting, - hesitates Griffith - it seems to him that in comparison with Laura he does not represent at least some interesting person.</p><p>- What, nothing at all? I've traveled before - you know, New Zealand zum Beispiel, Australia, Madagascar ... To be straight far, far away. And then, when I became a model, I traveled all over Europe.</p><p>- Well ... I am only writing, - turning to their building, Jim admits after a short hesitation - indeed, a block of wood: people know how to create an interesting life for themselves, - and I work with plants.</p><p>- Florist? I work with flowers, make ikebana - I specially went to Sogetsu, studied with Akane Tesigahare herself - although, I think, this will not tell you much.</p><p>- I guess this is an ikebanist teacher. No, not a florist, I have my own garden at home, I grow apple trees there.</p><p>- You can't tell, - Brealey smiles, slowing down too delicately.</p><p>- What do you think about me?</p><p>- That you can be an athlete.</p><p>- Oh, God bless you, what kind of athlete I am, - Jim dismisses, trying to understand whether this is a joke or a sincere assumption, - I am not even good at chess.</p><p>- What, what, good! You have the makings, - Laura does not give up, - you would be good at football, the legs are so long.</p><p>- I played frisbee before, - and then, um... I'm finished with it. It's not mine.</p><p>- Oh, come on! What then is yours? - no, after all, Brealey does not mock him, but simply what he thinks, then speaks in his holy innocence.</p><p>- I don't know ... I can't say that I found myself, - having opened the door in front of the girl and letting her go ahead, Griffith carefully wipes his feet so as not to leave them on the faded tile, - the trees are fine.</p><p>- And what is your job?</p><p>- I ... um ... I don't work, - Jim is embarrassed and enters the elevator - thank God, they are not the only ones who need to go upstairs: an excellent excuse to bend a not entirely pleasant topic.</p><p>- But what do you live on?</p><p>- So... I interrupt with hacks, plus I saved up for the house ...</p><p>Laura whispers something fluently to the nurse and, receiving an approving nod from that, leads James into the room: bigger and lighter than his, much cleaner and tidier, and it smells just wonderful here - flowers, perfume, almost no bleach.</p><p>- Where did you want to build a house?</p><p>- Barafundle Bay,- Griffith shows her the pictures of the bay, - nearly three hundred miles from London.</p><p>- Wow, - having enlarged the image and carefully examining it, Brealey returns the phone and pours a suspiciously transparent liquid into state-owned cups, - I have never been there.</p><p>- In vain. Not far from the bay grows a rather specific moss, bright red. Not bad for ikebana, I think.</p><p>- I'll have to go as soon as I leave, - the girl winks slyly, - where are you from?</p><p>- From Stackpole, it's in Wales. And you? - taking off his shoes, Griffith barefoot walks across the room after Laura, who has already taken a bag of peach nectar and fruit from the nightstand.</p><p>- I am a local, I was born and raised in London.</p><p>- Well what can I say, London has the most beautiful city women. May I? - he reaches out to help her take off her jacket.</p><p>- Should I take this as a compliment?</p><p>- Yes. Look, I haven't seen a single model before you, will you do me a favor? - hanging his outerwear on a hanger and moving a chair to Laura's bed, Jim succumbs to a sudden impulse.</p><p>- What?</p><p>- Take off that stupid robe and walk around.</p><p>The girl's round cheeks flushed with a playful blush - well, not only Norton knows how to make compliments - and she, leaving the simple food alone, approaches him.</p><p>- Then help me with this too, - Laura throws her hand to Griffith and, when he pulls off his sleeve, almost in a dance motion throws the second; the dressing-gown remains in Jamie's lap, and the girl dressed in a brand-new house suit - a professional fashion model - takes several steps around the ward, beautifully arching her back, rearranging her legs and moving her shoulders.</p><p>- Awesome, - Jim whispers, admiring how the setting sun plays with Brealey's velvety, peach-like skin - and in this light it begins to seem to him that life is not such shit, there are still glimpses in it ...</p><p>- Well, welcome company?</p><p>- For the acquaintance, - Jim assent and, having taken a sip from the cup, almost spits out the contents that turned out to be "Chwisgi", - are you out of your mind? And if someone from the staff finds out? They'll get you out of here!</p><p>- Phooey, - after taking a small sip, Laura takes a bite of a banana, - and how you, so good of yourself, smoke?</p><p>- Oh, save me from looking for excuses, we communicate so well, - once again sipping alcohol - just to not be so different from Brealey - he smiles, - smoking seems to be not particularly prohibited here, at least for cigarettes it won't hurt on the hat, unless you have cystic fibrosis or bronchogenic carcinoma. Or do you have some kind of cunning form in which you definitely need to thump? - it's a shame to ask directly, but the conversation somehow turns by itself so that the question seems appropriate.</p><p>- Well, I’m like that, for three days, purely for a mammogram, I’m sure that the picture will contain the words “your boobs could be here ”, - Laura evades, pulling up her sleeves, oh, why are they drowning like that ... It's crazy if you cook here for a week. What about you?</p><p>- Me? I ... - and why did it not occur to Jim that the interlocutor would also want to know the reason for his being in the oncology department, - there's on my leg ... In general... <em>I have a leg</em>.</p><p>- What do they say?</p><p>- Nothing, in principle. They offer to cut.</p><p>- How so -<em> to cut</em>?! - Brealey cries out, slapping himself on the knees, - why don't they want to heal, blockheads? Maybe you will go to another clinic?</p><p>- Hush, just a small piece here will be fired off - and it will not last long, - Jim tries to calm the girl down, but he thinks: but if he hadn't had legs, where would crutches or a wheelchair be now? How would he hold the stump? And he wouldn't have led Laura through the park, but she would rolling a chair ...</p><p>- Oh, okay then, - Brealey falls off, like coffee taken off the burner, bubbling in a Turk, and pours himself and Griffith moonshine, - but if they want to cut it off, don't agree, this is pure fanaticism to cripple a person so much!</p><p>- Then, I suppose, it would be appropriate to drink to your health?</p><p>- Drinking to health is the same as fucking for virginity, - she drops these words simply, as if they had known all her life, and they went through thick and thin, and her joy spreads to Jim, nullifying all fears and torment; even a thigh mixed in half with fear, which regularly gnaws at him at any time of the day, calms down, as if he, like Laura, had just looked here between his trips for three days of examination - but let it be your way.</p><p>- You're making me blush.</p><p>- From what? - rosy and joyful - apparently, she has not yet passed the first stage of cancer, loss of appetite and sleep, and retained the brightness and juiciness of her lips, - or you ...</p><p>Sighing and squeezing the hem of her hospital gown, Brealey herself blushes and stews, as does Griffith, whose blood pressure has jumped: in just half an hour, the red-browed angel wins his heart and knocks him down, like Miles once did, and then Lisa and Mark - the heat scorches the ears, cheeks and forehead.</p><p>- I - no ... That is, yes ... In general, it was somehow .... And you?</p><p>- Of course yes! - Laura laughs: as under a hospital gown she has only a home suit and a shower, so under the words there is nothing to hide, - we have on the course - almost all the girls already! One generally gave birth recently ...</p><p>- On the course? - Jim is surprised: somehow he did not think about the age of the interlocutor, - how old are you?</p><p>- What age do you think I look?</p><p>- Well, eighteen, no more ...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. VI. Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Then in the night the town is lost;<br/>A train is clad in silver plush.<br/>The pallid puff, the draught of frost<br/>Will sheathe your face until you blush.<br/>The honeycomb of windows fits<br/>The smell of halva and of zest,<br/>While Christmas Eve is carrying its<br/>Mince pies abreast.</p><p>Watch your New Year come in a blue<br/>Seawave across the town terrain<br/>In such an inexplicable blue,<br/>As if your life can start again,<br/>As if there can be bread and light —<br/>A lucky day — and something's left,<br/>As if your life can sway aright,<br/>Once swayed aleft.</p><p>(c) Joseph Brodsky, "Moscow Carol"</p><p>
  <strong>December 2008, Haverfordwest - London train.</strong>
</p><p>Overwhelmed with heavy thoughts about the upcoming operation to the rustle of Chloe and the girls playing in the children's loto - as always, he is afraid: what if something goes wrong? - Jim thoughtlessly glances over the pristine, smoothly snow-covered fields, switching tracks in the player one by one in search of a melody that would suit the mood, but he never finds anything, and simply turns on the sound recordings of space made by NASA.</p><p>- <em>To solve a new problem, you need to deal with the old one, for which you need to dive into yourself, and these are deep waters, Jamie, very deep waters</em>, - a painfully familiar voice comes from the headphones, muffled by the shrill whistle of the train arriving in London, and James, feeling immeasurably, <em>immeasurably</em> lonely, throws a travel bag over his shoulder, takes Maddison by the hand and drags along after his sister.</p><p>- Well, where is your Janine? - Chloe giggles as the four of them exit gleaming Christmas decorations at Paddington Station after a five-hour jolt on the train.</p><p>- At the needing place, - James gently mutters, diligently pretending that everything is going as it should, - she will come in a couple of days, she is now checking the hives in Sussex.</p><p>
  <em>- Oh yes, of course, the tenacious, unprincipled tabloid whore is asleep and sees how to listen to the bees, Jamie. Was worried sick, yeah.</em>
</p><p>- Don't bees sleep in winter, Uncle James? - Clem asks in amazement, not childishly seriously looking at Griffith.</p><p>- Not really, dear, - James adjusts the strap of the bag and more comfortably intercepts Maddie's hand drowning in a warm mitten, - you see ... the thing about live is ... - <em>today I ... and along the way, I won't see mine</em> ... - uh ... that ...</p><p>For a second he stumbles, because, frankly, he has no idea what processes occur with hardworking insects in the cold season, but to his surprise, a voice in his head immediately comes to his aid (for himself, he christened him Sh. - as well as his literary the hero, who still leaves more questions than answers, as if he did not come up with Sh., but Sh. invented him), whispering information about which Jim for all his twenty-seven years was generally neither a dream nor a spirit. Words flying at an amazing speed sound smooth, coherent and quite convincing, and Griffith simply repeats what he hears, wondering how smoothly the words roll off the language, as if his head is crammed with a tape recorder, and he is nothing more than a player playing a record ...</p><p>- The fact is that bees do not sleep in winter, but form a so-called "club" - a living heap, in which they constantly change places with each other, maintaining the desired temperature in the hive. And the beekeeper - the man who breeds the bees - must definitely listen to them, because in the absence of any sounds, the hive is considered dead and burned ... What the fucking fuck!</p><p>He stumbles out of the blue, but manages not to fall, first of all thinking about the little one, which he otherwise would simply have crushed, and, awkwardly turning the body, finds support and cries out in pain that  pierced his thigh with a million fragments.</p><p>- Jim? - Chloe turns around and looks at her younger brother with undisguised concern - and this look makes Griffith uncomfortable, because if ...</p><p>- I'm fine, - he annoyed him and, leaning on a lamppost and transferring his weight to his healthy leg, gently chatters the patient in the air in order to slightly shake the prickly hot grains of sand that have itched inside the muscle fibers. Grabbing the bag more comfortably and stretching his lips in a gentle grin, he gently addresses the girls:</p><p>- Pumpkins, uncle said a bad word. What should be done?</p><p>- Remember and never say! - proudly replies Clem, straightening out from under the cap, dark, like Mike's hair, and smiles broadly, exposing the newly hatched stumps instead of the fallen milk teeth.</p><p>- That's right, - Jim nods his head, - well, when a colony of bees is considered dead, the hive is burned. If from there a quiet humming, similar to the rustling of leaves, is heard, this means that the bees are weakened, and they need to be fed, and then the beekeeper supplies them with honey cakes or kandy - a special mixture of honey, pollen and powdered sugar.</p><p>- Where does this knowledge come from, Jim? Chloe grins, looking at Griffith in bewilderment.</p><p>- Google, - James blurts out sharply and limps forward confidently.</p><p>Until the bus stop they wander in silence, admiring the cleanliness of London covered with a snow-white blanket and enjoying the silence inherent exclusively in winter - and suddenly everything around in this silence for a second is filled with muffled, as if through a pillow - <em>I knew that pillow was too good to be true</em> - the roar of fireworks, the grouse and happy laughter, and for some reason someone is a fucking idiot, and if he starts going "Brokeback" then he will be going "Rambo", but all this boyish fun is felt so disturbing that James freezes half a step, gasping for the frosty air.</p><p>
  <strong>December 2008, Kensington Gardens, London.</strong>
</p><p>On the eve of Chloe's departure with the girls back to Pembrokeshire, James recalls that a little over a year ago he promised to take the girls to Kensington Gardens, and, deciding to fulfill his promise, conducts a small excursion - of course, no one really listens to him - <em>it's raining, it's pouring, Griffith is boring</em> - but this is already in the order of things, so it never occurs to him to be offended. And why spoil the mood for yourself and others, especially now, when the indescribably beautiful park breathes calmness, as if making a promise that nothing bad can happen in winter, nothing terrible when there is still a whole day ahead to gain good impressions before half of the second course of chemotherapy: there was simply not enough money for a full one, but James is trying his best to ward off this unpleasant wormhole from himself.</p><p>Hearing the ringing voices of laughing girls and sisters, Jim, overwhelmed by gloomy thoughts and staring at the snow-covered prints of goats' hooves around the monument to Peter Pan turns to them and immediately gets an aiming snowball thrown right in the face.</p><p>- Chloe, you nasty woman! I demand satisfaction! - he laughs and, wrapping his neck and face up to the very eyes with a blue scarf - almost the same as the one with which he blindfolded at his birthday party (it's a pity that he lost it that evening), and hastily sculpts - <em>Davey, I'm going in ... -  This is what we were talking about, your morphine chases. You're drunk. - Maybe a little. I didn’t do what the bullshit was sober! Into the breach! </em>- spherical lumps of snow and generously scatters them to the right and left, now and then straightening textiles slipping from the nose.</p><p>In playing no one notices two men appear on the scene of hostilities: one is unseasonably tanned and despite the imposing gray hair, is still somewhat similar, either in habits, or with an eye cut on a deer, the second is representative, in expensive clothes and an inappropriate umbrella in his hands, red-haired, haughty, with an upturned nose and contemptuously curling lips, as if he was doing a huge favor to his interlocutor with every word.</p><p>- Greg, he is an idiot not because he is stupid, but because he completely loses his head if the case is higher than four, and rushes to the trouble, not thinking about the consequences, since J...</p><p>At the sight of such a blasphemous battle in relation to the royal garden, the "Umbrella" breaks off mid-sentence and freezes in place, without a cigarette reaching his mouth, when the snowball sent by Chloe breaks on his woolen coat.</p><p>- What...</p><p>- Oh, sorry! - the girl's cheeks already flushed from the game and frost are reddened with embarrassment, and she takes a couple of steps forward to help shake off the clothes of the man who has died from such a blatant disgrace.</p><p>- Fuck prudes! - James laughs and for a second lowers the scarf from his nose in order to breathe in the fresh winter air with full lungs - this movement makes the "Umbrella" strikingly change in his face - and throws a lump in his direction, but misses and falls into Greg, who immediately brushes the crystals off his jacket and, looking inquiringly and unrequitedly at the satellite, walks in their direction with a chased step, taking out from his bosom the crust of Inspector Scotland Yard.</p><p>- Young people, what's going on?</p><p>- It's not illegal to play snowballs! Chloe, little ones, go! Sensible retreat but the tide is turning! - through uncontrollable laughter, James cries out Bill's favorite saying, grabs Maddy and Clem by the arms and runs, falling on his right leg, hastily retreating from the men frozen in surprise.</p><p>
  <strong>December 2008, Paddington Station, London.</strong>
</p><p>- Come on, Jim, be strong. I hope Santa will not be asshole and will finally give you a healthy leg, I hate that you've been hanging around with her for almost a year, you poor angel.</p><p>- Don't call me like old folks, Chloe, you know I hate it, -  Griffith mock grumbles, wrinkling his nose.</p><p>- We ourselves will not ring, so as not to bother you, so you keep us informed, okay? And if you need something, then write we will bring it. Milo is just returning from Chelsea, - the girl smiles, taking off mittens from her daughters, - give Janine my love.</p><p> - Behave yourself, pumpkins, - pretending to know nothing about any Clavell, James squeezes the girls in his arms, kissing their cold cheeks.</p><p>- And you be more careful there, brother, - replies Chloe, and James hugs her and pecks on her cheek goodbye, inhaling the constant scent of his sister - a mixture of aromas of apple flowers, willow twigs and hand and face cream with propolis, - I will write as we return to Stack. Merry Christmas!</p><p>- Merry Christmas! - echo the mothers Clem and Maddie and actively waving their hands from the window of their car, and the steam that comes out of their mouths with a light veil merges with him, James, while he also waves them, shouting after:</p><p>- Merry Christmas!</p><p>
  <strong>January 2009, hospital. St. Bartholomew, London.</strong>
</p><p>- Lord, shut the fuck up already! - an exhausted groan rolls through Barts' oncology department when Hugh Bonneville, already a familiar man from the next room, once again with the help of an obedient nurse crawls out into the corridor early in the morning, as soon as the lamps have time to flash, notifying patients of the rise, and in raised tones speak speakerphone with some Jonathan, indignantly demanding that he come, to which the interlocutor - James for some reason saw him as a bearded bum in shabby shorts - yells, trying to shout over the sound of the waves and the howling of the wind: “I'm in South Wales, Hugh! I almost found it! "</p><p>Having received his morning injection, a portion of pills and an unreliable breakfast that looks more like vomit than porridge, Griffith leaves the dormitory and leaves the room for a smoke break, but freezes in place: a painfully familiar face sits on the sofa in the company of a man with a bandaged neck - turned into a skeleton poor fellow Hugh can only be recognized by general features - neither the former liveliness, nor dexterity of movement was not even a trace.</p><p>- Hey, Mr. Bonneville, you seemed to be released with remission a couple of years ago?</p><p> - Metastasis bummed in the brain, - shrugs the shoulders of a neighbor, squirting from a plastic cup, - after the wife died.</p><p>- My condolences, man, she was a good woman, - Griffith says, putting his hand on the old man's shoulder; shuddering, the oldster lifts his face - there is a feeling as if his head is about to fall off and he is trying with all his might to hold it, - hey, Hugh, old man, it's me, Jim. We sat together in therapy with Crandall and Hall sat, remember?</p><p>Swaying, Bonneville begins to pluck off the pellets from the sleeve of a washed sweater worn over an official hospital gown, looking into the void with a bewildered look - it seems that he lost a hundred pounds since their last meeting, which in itself was incredible: throw off Hugh so much, he wouldn't and not left, but the brain reacted that way. The yellowed skin literally stuck to the skull, dark bags lay under the eyes, and the look is somewhat reminiscent of the tsar's eyes from the canvas of some Russian artist.</p><p>- How are you, dude?</p><p>- I was a professional traveler, so to speak. And now ... as if they were locked me in a chest, like Alastor Moody, - his voice trembles - sad and drooping, just about - and he will cry again, limply dropping his hands on his knees and will look at them with an unrecognizable look, - I am like a zombie now, or like a goldfish ... Listen, John ...</p><p>- James.</p><p>- Exactly, I'm sorry. And about the goldfish ... Was there something like that in Harry Potter?</p><p>- Not in the book. In the film - what a beautiful magic.</p><p>- Exactly ... - Hugh sighs, raises shaking palms to his face and misses the target again, runs them over the bald skull instead of wiping his eyes, - you and I could use a little bit of beautiful magic, yes, Joe ?</p><p>- Yes, old man, it would be nice, - James agrees, overcoming the feeling of awkwardness, gently helps Bonneville.</p><p>- And then you see ... Fingers are something not there ... Something with them ... - he listlessly brings a trembling palm with kidney plaques to his face and looks at it as if he had never seen it before, - something happened ... to her, Jack, something happened to her, - and begins to really cry, quietly and soundlessly, but at the same time calmly and judiciously, as if with full understanding of what is happening.</p><p>- Hush, hush, old man, - embracing Bonneville - the smell of old age, naphthalene and urine immediately hits his nose - Griffith puts his head on his shoulder and strokes his bald head, covered in moles and age spots, which to the touch looks like oiled cling film, - this is what it is. Just what it is.</p><p>
  <strong>January 2009, hospital. St. Bartholomew, London.</strong>
</p><p>On a surprisingly and unnaturally calm night from January 6 to January 7, Griffith lies in the ward in splendid isolation and, shaken by chills and nausea, pulls the blanket over his shoulders and sticks in the headphones, feeling a little dizzy from the drugs.</p><p>
  <em>Mitocin ... Cisplatin ... 5-Fluorouracil ... </em>
</p><p>James lies and fights nausea, a slimy-bitter lump of bile and lean oatmeal stuck in his throat: now in no case should he be turned inside out - otherwise he will vomit the pills he took before bed, and an unscheduled dose will not be given due to limited hospital's budget, and there is no particular desire to look for half-dissolved tablets in a pool of their own vomit.</p><p>When medications finally begins to take effect, the stomach stops rebelling, and a blessed half-asleep envelops it with cotton bliss, from which a strange numbness spreads through the body and a milky fog clouds the mind.</p><p>Through the veil he fancies - or maybe he doesn’t seem at all - as if in the silence the neat steps of shoes worn out and wet from melted snow are heard, the stale air of the chamber fills with the smell of bleach, wet wool and tobacco, and the switch clicks by itself, and from the blinking light of fluorescent lamps the reflection in the window from the fabulous snow becomes a dreary hospital.</p><p><em>- I beg your pardon</em>, - someone whispers barely audibly, turns off the light and leaves the room, leaving James alone with pain and irregular ripples, as if someone had lit a match and looked through it at the haze of air dancing from the heat. The stranger seems to be leaving all at once, but it seems to Griffith that he is still here, only just dissolves, like the Cheshire cat.</p><p><em>- Well, Jamie, are we flying? - Sh</em> .'s sarcastic voice lies remarkably on the soft pillow, and his sleek hands, smelling of expensive leather gloves, chemicals and cigarettes, stick the blanket out without touching the body <em>- I'll be mother. - And there is my childhood in a nutshell, -</em> like a mother wrapping a child exhausted with epidermolysis bullosa.</p><p>- Where? - Jim does not even bother to turn back and look at the mysterious - no, just a hallucination - the night visitor, feeling the pain like barbed wire wrapping around his thigh, biting into his flesh like a swarm of angry bees.</p><p>
  <em>- It's Marylebone Road to the right and then straight on Baker Street till the very end.</em>
</p><p>- Okay, let's fly to your fucking Baker Street, B-612, - Jim says reluctantly, unable to open his eyes, as if each eyelid began to weigh a ton, as if the Sand Man had tried here.</p><p>
  <em>- Not to, but on, Jamie. And not B-612, but 221-B.</em>
</p><p>- Fuck it already, - Griffith mutters, turning his slightly swollen tongue with difficulty, and wants to add something else, but forgets the words, as soon as the salty air, raising it up begins to blow right into his face from which cracks on the dry skin around the lips and inner corners of the eyes begin to pinch.</p><p>He flies, wide as if in a desire to embrace the whole world arms outstretched and his face exposed to the east wind chilling to the bone. At times it becomes dark, at times light, however, he does not see the sunrises and sunsets as such, and the cold is replaced by warmth and vice versa, as if his flight stretches for a day, falling into the day, then into the night.</p><p>Sometimes James feels a little hungry, but more often - nausea; periodically he crashes into frozen clouds at great speed and spins like a mad top in the air, stuffing bumps, cutting cheekbones and tearing hands into abrasions. The worst thing happens in rare moments, when he, like an aquarium fish "falls asleep" on the fly and falls through the cotton subconscious down to the viciously raging sea, into which his River spilled, and if it were not for the salutary cry of the violin, gradually turning into a dance funny trills coming from somewhere from the direction of the third star, it would surely have crashed, but the sounds pick it up, making you remember something rhythmic, festive, with the taste of "Guinness" and rancid cheap peanuts, and then wake up halfway to the surface billowing from the emerging whales, thereby stopping the fall.</p><p>At some point, Griffith swoops in on a flock of either rooks or gulls; hiding his head from an endless series of feathers and beaks, he lowers his head and sees a body drifting face down in the sea - <em>my God, it's me</em> - and wakes up with a cry, wrapped in sheets soaked with sweat, as if in a shroud.</p><p>Shivering, he jerks his head to ward off the throbbing "sorry" in his head, and hobbles to open the window to the window to disperse the air that smells of fear.</p><p>
  <strong>February 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>Two damn weeks James is torn between Scylla and Charybdis - looking for a job and trying to give Sh. A full, normal name; in his torment Griffith even goes so far as to try to address him directly and, feeling a little crazy with the absurdity of the idea, says out loud:</p><p>- I'm begging you. I'm <em>begging</em> you, please, tell me what is your name? What?</p><p>- <em>So, what then is my name to you? Oh, it will die, like doleful jingle of billows on the distant shingle, for God's sake, Jamie! Asking someone what his name is - nothing more than an attempt to find out what sounds need to be pronounced in order to attract his attention</em>, - Sh. snorts unbearably maliciously, exhaling tobacco smoke right into his neck, which makes goosebumps run down his pale skin, - <em>my name is Scott, my name is William, my name is Shezzard, my name is JIM</em> - no, shut up - <em>my name is JAMES</em>.</p><p>- Stop it, stop it <em>NOW</em>! - knowing that this name is not his, Griffith wearily presses the quivering fingertips to his eyelids, and multi-colored circles blur before his eyes - exactly like ripples on the surface of the sea reflecting the rainbow spread over it.</p><p>Feeling weak and worthless from the tears of helplessness and resentment at this screwball Milo, James in his hearts deletes his book and most of his drafts dedicated to Sh., with a tearing pain in his heart admitting defeat in his long-term rivalry with Clavell. His hands are itching to take the phone and call him to scream like that, but as soon as he pulls himself together and dial the number, a timid knock on the door of his room.</p><p>- Jim? May I? - Chloe asks and patiently waits for the younger brother's answer.</p><p>- Toy must. Come in already, - with some degree of relief, Griffith throws his cell phone back into the drawer and turns to the entering sister, - what can I do?</p><p>- Mike and I and parents are going to the center, won't you sit with the girls please? - asks Chloe and, a little embarrassed, adds, - well, if it's not difficult for you.</p><p>- But of course! - Griffith gives the girl one of his most charming smiles - at least when he is fiddling with petty ones, he will not have time for sad thoughts - and hands her a few bills, - buy me cigarettes and beer.</p><p>- And 6.50 for delivery?</p><p>- You are a bandit! - James grins and scrapes the change out of the can, - okay, nuts to you, here's a hundred for cigarettes and delivery to your only and beloved brother who agreed to hang out with your offspring in his good nature.</p><p>Half an hour after the relatives leave, James hobbies on the porch to smoke and give the girls who are safely wrapped in warm clothes a little look at the stars in the hope that he can convey to these bright heads, whose little ears are not yet hung with noodles, his passion for space and love for contemplation...</p><p>- Look, - trying not to smoke in their direction, Griffith pokes his finger towards the Northern Cross, - this is Deneb, the alpha of the Cygnus - or Swan -  constellation, located in the Cygnus arm - closest to the core of the Milky Way, only the Centaurus arm is closer. And also there, behind it, there is a very beautiful galaxy Fireworks, only it is poorly visible due to the interstellar medium of the Way. In just a hundred years scientists have seen as many as eight flares - that is, the birth of supernovae ... - imperceptibly for himself, James strays from his usual instructive tone to a reverent whisper and slightly covers his eyes with his hand, as if looking at the explosions of real, man-made pyrotechnics.</p><p>- Why was it called "Swan"? - asks Clemens without taking his eye off the sky.</p><p>- You are already frozen, let's go into the house, I'll tell you there.</p><p>After distributing mugs of hot cocoa to the girls, James sits down next to them on a squeezed sofa with a frayed bedspread and lays out on the coffee table homemade wooden cards with painted constellations, which he made with his father ten years ago.</p><p>- So. A long time ago, a woman named Leda lived in Sparta, and she was so beautiful that Zeus himself - the main God in ancient Greece mythology - wanted to marry her and, so that his jealous wife, the goddess Hera, would not know anything, turned into a swan and went down from Olympus to this Leda. Actually, that is why the constellation was named so - it personifies Zeus, who in the form of a snow-white bird rushes down to his beloved and the children that she gave birth to. Here they are, by the way, - Griffith shows to the listened nieces a card with the image of the Gemini constellation, - these are the inseparable twin brothers Castor and ... - Jim stops in mid-sentence, remembering the June night when Sh. first spoke to him and advised him to turn the telescope six degrees - <em>seven percent, Jamie -</em> ... Pollux.</p><p>Once again, brushing off unpleasant thoughts - you've been hitting it kind of hard - Griffith fishes out black flannel rags and a matchbox with stars cut out of candy wrappers with his own hands and gives them to the girls so that they can lay out the corresponding constellations from them, thereby slowly memorizing and taking part to distinguish them - once  this knowledge helped him a lot, and he passionately wanted to pass them on to the younger generation, however, girls do not really listen to him, and why would they, when there are so many interesting things ahead: to ride on ice, to brag to friends gifts for Christmas and play with them, fall face down in the snow layer, have tea with homemade oatmeal cookies at the Fields ...</p><p>Glancing at his watch - almost half past six in the evening, it's time - James leaves Clem and Maddie at their occupation and drags into his room to take well hidden from his mother's prying eyes pills, and, grabbing a mobile phone, goes to the kitchen to warm the dinner up.</p><p>- So, princesses, wind it down and go to eat! - he yells and sits down in relief, cradling his aching thigh as the phone chimes cheerfully. He doesn’t even have time to say “hello” - Bill, true to himself, without waiting shouts for him to immediately turn on BBC-1, because there are about to start showing two issues of the program for children, which he filmed a hundred years ago.</p><p>Griffith shamelessly lies to the girls that he has already eaten, and the three of them are looking at the screen of an old TV: a young and very well-groomed man with slightly crazy brown eyes and a fashionable hairstyle appears against a sky-blue background with cardboard clouds "floating" on thin wires.</p><p>- I walked in the forest, I walked in the field, - he intones with a pronounced Irish accent, - I wandered for a long, long time, the animals saw me and showed the way here. Hello kids, girls and boys! My name is Richard Brooke, I will be your best friend! We'll have a lot of fun with you! Do you want to hear the story about Miles Gloriosus?</p><p>Richard opens a plump and pretty tattered book, as if written by himself by hand, and with a predatory smile, pretends to be cheerfully starts to tell the story:</p><p> </p><p>- Once upon a time there lived and did not grieved one person whose name was Miles Gloriosus, and he had three friends: a kind-hearted one, a fool and a theorist who carried him everywhere on a heavy and beautiful black shield, and Miles Gloriosus shouted loudly that he is the richest, smartest and most handsome in the world. And one day two met him on the way: the groom and the bride, so kind and sweet that one could neither say in a fairy tale nor describe with a pen, and Miles wanted to lure her away from the groom - oh how he danced attendance on her, but everything was in vain, and then he invented...</p><p>What exactly Miles had invented, James could not hear - he was distracted by Chloe's call, who urgently needed to find out which cigarettes to buy, whether he fed the girls and whether there was food left for Tom and Nana.</p><p>When Griffith finally frees himself from his sister and returns to the kitchen, the second episode of the program begins. The producer seems to be chasing the idea of ridiculing liars and a creep as Brooke begins the narrative by saying:</p><p>- Are you ready for the story of Sir Boast-a-lot?</p><p>There is something shiveringly familiar in this, as if he had heard it before, but only forgot ...</p><p>Meanwhile, Richard with an incredibly sad face recounts how Sir Boast-a-lot, the bravest and cleverest knight of the round table, spoke right and left about how strong, courageous he was and that he had slain more dragons than anyone else in all of Britain. But soon the other knights began to grow tired of his stories and even began to wonder if his stories were even true, and they went to King Arthur to say that Sir Boast-a-lot is just a big old liar who makes things up to make himself look good.</p><p>At the words "and then even the King began to wonder" Brooke shed a tear, and Maddy gets up and walks over to the TV with a napkin in her hands, and wipes his cheek, not realizing that the man is on the TV, and not in their kitchen.</p><p>Sighing skeptically - something is wrong with this Richard Brooks and his tales - and putting the girls to bed - he leaves the door open just in case if one of them will have a nightmare suddenly, and at the same time not to miss Chloe and parents return  - James opens the window, lights a cigarette and sits down at the computer.</p><p>
  <em>"Cancer. These six scary letters look like a scaffold bag. Like a rag on the head of the condemned. A terrible disease that bursts into a cozy family nest without invitation, without knocking, without warning. Makes children orphans, parents childless. Cancer is hidden as something shameful, it is not customary to talk about it - it hurts too much, if you write the truth: it hurts for the healthy to see death, for the sick it hurts to hope for a miracle ... </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But twenty-three-year-old Elizabeth McAllister decided on it. For several years now this seemingly fragile girl has been struggling with breast cancer, and does not hesitate to speak openly about her diagnosis and how she learned to live with it. To live - and fight with your main enemy - invasive cystic hypersecretory carcinoma of the breast". </em>
</p><p>Having extinguished his cigarette, Griffith opens the first can of beer and, leaning back in his chair, recalls Laura and tries to imagine the color of her eyes, voice, laughter ...  how she walked proudly along the linoleum as if on a catwalk.</p><p>
  <em>- “I had an ordinary life, - writes Lisa in her blog, - I studied at the University of Manchester as a secretary, gave master classes in cursive writing, and attended a French language club. I made plans for the future - I wanted to move to London and get a job in the secretariat somewhere in Soho, I even sent out a resume ... But I did not have time to arrange everything seriously - at the age of nineteen the disease suddenly fell on me and my family". </em>
</p><p>
  <em>First, the girl began to feel severe weakness, then - to experience chest pains, and then she started to have severe bleeding, which did not stop for months. Nobody told her the diagnosis for a very long time - the doctors and parents were silent. But when she was urgently taken to the Manchester Royal Hospital in the Department of Oncogynecology, Liz herself understood what had happened.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"- The doctors said that the anamnesis was unclear and I needed to be taken to the hospital for a full examination, but when I was in the ward, there was no need to explain anything: I realized that something terrible had happened."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>McAllister celebrated her birthday at the clinic, and the gift was the need to urgently do a mastectomy, where both glands and several lymph nodes were removed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- "The doctors were afraid that metastases might appear in the future and, although the decision was not easy, I had to agree to an operation in order to survive. I had to come to terms with the fact that I would never be able to breastfeed. The realization that I can die ... " </em>
</p><p>James scrolls through the written text and, highlighting the endlessly repeated union, grimly pokes his tongue and lights up again.</p><p>
  <em>“…-  It helped me understand how much I love life and my family. To say that I was not worried is to say nothing: for them my illness was probably worse than for myself, because living with a person suffering from oncology is very difficult - you don't know how to behave, what to say, how to help ... Parents and the boyfriebd was ready to literally rip out their hearts and give 'em to me, if only this would stop the nightmare".</em>
</p><p>
  <em>She straightens the wide-necked sweater that has fallen from her shoulder and hastily wipes her bleeding eyes with her sleeve.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- “In recent times there have been many films and books where heroines are fighting cancer. There they are always touching, cute, admirable - and beautiful. But this is not the case. It's impossible to die beautifully. Along with good health and beauty, eyebrows, eyelashes, weight disappear ... High-dose drugs hit the body like a hammer on an anvil, dizzy, eternal nausea ... It hurts just to breathe."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The girl also admits that in order to endure all the hardships of her position she began to blog where she honestly and without tinsel shares about her experiences, give advice to subscribers on a healthy lifestyle and positive thinking and how to avoid oncology altogether - she I wanted to do as much good as possible, increase the amount of good, despite the evil comments - and many discussed the intricacies of carcinoma - there were even those who considered Liz infectious, looked at her as Timmy Butterman from "Pet cematary" and were able to laugh at her alopecia and skin color, but McAllister did not attach any importance to this: </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“- I knew: I’ll get well, but as they were fools, they will remain so. Let life split me like a nut, but it got the core of wisdom: the disease infected me with the love of life, of people. I wanted to bring goodness to the world. So that healthy people who give up and exchange gold for cents would value more what they have. After all, life is a gift. This is a chance! "</em>
</p><p>
  <em>People like Liz never talk about complete recovery - their lives will forever be connected with clinics, tests, examinations ... But now Elizabeth is much better. 15 hours of surgery and 5 blocks of chemotherapy behind, ahead - BMT and immunotherapy. She has four inches of fluffy brown hair and her eyelashes are growing back. She is writing a diploma. "</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. VII. Morbi non eloquentia, sed remediis curantur</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There is a half-light</p><p>Between the joy and sorrow;</p><p>The soul is constrained by itself,</p><p>Life is hateful, so terrible is death -</p><p>You find the root of anguish in yourself</p><p>And the sky cannot be blamed for anything.</p><p>© M. Lermontov — «There is time».</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>March 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Griffith tries not to leave his room, especially in the daytime: in the evening, in the dim light of the lamps, his rapidly deteriorating health is not so striking, and he can dismiss the questioning looks of his parents, hiding behind some kind of stomach flu, poisoning with "random quark" and insomnia ... But after all, the days are getting brighter and longer, Easter is on the nose, therefore, Chloe will soon arrive with the girls - and her eyes are sharp-sighted, he just won't get away, he won't get rid of, and then the gimmick will surely begin - <em>Jim, why did you never don't say anything, Jim, why are you so thin, Jim, why are you so selfish ...</em></p><p>He could, of course, sell some of his things that he doesn't really need: a bicycle, a rare typewriter and an old telescope. But their whole house is worth like three full courses of chemistry and radiation, what can one say about the modest property that he owns? One can't even call it property ...</p><p>After another unsuccessful interview, James, having taken a handful of pills in one gulp - now this shit is his breakfast, lunch and dinner - sullenly looks at his reflection, barely touching the sharpened fingers - <em>look at these cheeckbones, I could cut myself slapping this face</em> - bilges and grunted displeasedly. It is not surprising that he was not accepted again: indeed, who needs an editor (as well as a consultant in a cell phone salon, a cashier in a grocery store, a taxi driver and a gas station operator), who looks more like a drunken drug addict than a linguist from an intelligent family: skinny and pale, with small bumps of inflamed lymph nodes behind the ears, with grayish skin covered with red vessels, scaly from dryness, sunken, inflamed eyes and bloodless lips with deep angulitis in the corners of the mouth and yellow teeth.</p><p>No, James honestly tries and is not afraid of any, even the dirtiest work - all the more so for the first time in his life he needs to work for a "pharmacy" - but he understands perfectly well: now a loader is out of him is like a bullet from shit - he barely manages not to limp in public, what is it about carrying eighty-pound sacks of potatoes all day long?</p><p>He opens the door of the wall cabinet in the bathroom and wanders his eyes along the shelves cluttered with all sorts of nonsense in search of whitening toothpaste, and almost falls, jumping from the radio built into the wall next to the shower fixer, unexpectedly screaming at full volume:</p><p>
  <em>- Use "L'Oreal Paris" self-tanner and in just a month your skin will look like you spent your holyday in the Caribbean!</em>
</p><p>Swearing, James turns off the device and hovers over the toilet - in general, it makes sense to use a self-tanner or go to a solarium - holding one hand to the wall and the other to the penis, feeling a damn unpleasant, aching and slightly stabbing sensation in the lower abdomen.</p><p>- Thank you, I'll keep it in mind, - he mutters, wincing slightly when a dark and burning stream of concentrated urine finally begins to gurgle over the light blue faience, shakes off the last droplets and, after washing off the water, rinses his hands hastily and weaves back to his room. ...</p><p>- <em>You're welcome</em>, - chuckles Sh. in his head, - <em>but if I were you, I would still tell them</em>.</p><p>- Fuck off, my shitty conscience, - James waves his hand in the direction of the alleged location of Sh., but a swarm of overwhelmingly heavy thoughts - he can't really brush off them - buzzes with an angry hive: while the sarcoma is only at the beginning of the third, penultimate stage, Griffith, you can still to bargain for twenty years - <em>bullshit!</em> - there is still hope even there is no money, and after all, cancer is money, credit money, last money, money on debt, money on loan - are transmitted directly to the brain and mixed with the stream of his consciousness, strange, alarming and indescribably bitter <em><strike>-</strike> <strike>like a morphine solution</strike> <strike>-</strike></em> either words or thoughts belonging to Sh.</p><p>- It's all complicated.</p><p><em>- You have to be smart to be complicated,</em> -  Sh. hisses like an angry cobra, and Jim literally sees his lips stretched out in an unkind grin reveal a row of pearly teeth.</p><p>- I'll lie down and think about it later, - Griffith wearily rubs his face with numb palms, feeling the unpleasant roughness of the skin covered with closed comedones and peels.</p><p>
  <em>- Normal people think lying down, standing or sitting, yes, Jamie, and you think later. You always have everything "later".</em>
</p><p>Well, this is really painful, and James does not know what to say - and what can he say, then? He was tired to the ball, even though he didn’t really do anything during the day: he ate, vomited, got ready, went for an interview, got a turn from the gate, came back. Could the disease be so mercilessly devouring his powers? And if it's so bad now, then what will happen next? Of course he can  blame everyone and everything - Davey for knocking him down on the beach two years ago, or the lipped Dr. Hooper, who prescribed the wrong treatment, or his father, who instilled the habit of not complaining about anything from early childhood...</p><p>- <em>Oh, come on, blame the external forces for everything - the race, the phase of the moon, the untimely landing on a pot and a "F" in algebra</em>, - does not stop the curly brainbox, drilling in his skull with an annoying and painful drill, - <em>do not undermine your own indecision to do something. Don't be foolish in front of yourself.</em></p><p>Yes, of course, yes - it is his own fault that he put it off to the Greek calends - <em>as much as six and a half feet, Jamie!</em> - forgot to take medicine, was in no hurry to see the doctor and thought more about how to get into Janine's panties and find a name for his hero instead of accepting and realizing in full the fact that cancer is not a runny nose or a bruise, and won't work by itself.</p><p>Having freed himself from the things that have become too spacious - <em>do not to look at the hefty stain left after the operation on the still slightly swollen thigh </em>- and pulling on his home fleece pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, Griffith falls helplessly on the bed, groaning in pain caused by the sudden movement. Without looking, he fumbles for a blister of buprenprofin hidden under the mattress and puts two tablets under his tongue, which make his mouth taste bitter and nausea rolls up his throat.</p><p><em>- If I came earlier! If only I had come earlier!</em> - suddenly exclaims S., unusually emotionally, and it seems to James that he, in a desperate impulse, grabs himself by the luxurious elastic rings of curly dark chocolate hair, and his face, so similar to his own, is distorted by a grimace of painful despair, from which smooth, almost porcelain the skin is streaked with fine and thin, like a cobweb, wrinkles.</p><p>- What?</p><p>
  <em>- Then you would have cut off your leg, and you whined that you are a useless cripple for the rest of your life, but this end would come not in a year and a half, but in thirty years, if not forty. It hurts Jamie, it hurts like hell. Isn't it hateful?</em>
</p><p>- Stop, what do you mean telling "one and a half"? - Griffith sits abruptly, his heart pounding in his chest,  - I asked myself ...</p><p>A memory flashes in his head - Lord, only a year! - old days: his shaking hands tear and crumple some pieces of paper, and the doctor says ...</p><p>
  <em>- “… That the leg will be amputated along with the acetabulum of the pelvis, and you won't even have a stump". You were scared then ... But I would have persuaded you to cut it off. And now…</em>
</p><p>- Now what? - the question hangs in the air, because the answer is already obvious:</p><p>
  <em>- Year and a half.</em>
</p><p>- Can you just lie to me a little? Do me a favor, I'm already scared.</p><p>
  <em>- Then I will be a very bad inner voice, and by the way - fear is just wisdom in the face of danger. Year. And. A. Half.</em>
</p><p>Helplessly twisting the sheets with tightly clenched fists, James buries his face in the pillow and whines softly, teeth clenched to an ache and crunch.</p><p>- You're lying! Gorwedd! Why? It's not me, <em>it's not me</em>, damn it, <em>why</em>?!</p><p><em>- I could tell you,</em> - Sh. sighs incredibly tiredly, - <em>but do you want to know this?</em></p><p>He doesn’t want to, because no “why” can compare with the “how” - Jim drives away the memories of a trip to the hospice to Milo's father when they were 15-16 years old, turns over on his back and fidgets on the bed so that the pillow does not press on knots in the neck and the leg felt comfortable; with this, alas, everything is quite complicated: lately he even has to make something like a nest out of blankets, rugs and pillows. Having settled down, Griffith closes his eyes and freely stretches his arms along the body, with his wrists feeling the sharply protruding bones of the pelvis.</p><p>- If you know the future, why don't you prevent it?</p><p>
  <em>- It was too late.</em>
</p><p>- Well ... You could have done it before, what's the problem?</p><p>
  <em>-  It was too late before too, because for me everything has already happened.</em>
</p><p>- Shut up, you flake. It would be better to say what your name is, - he mutters and covers himself with a blanket - the drugs begin to work, and the pain is no longer so mercilessly tugging at the muscles, except the reddened and swollen skin on the thigh that itches very much, like from chickenpox.</p><p>
  <em>- Here you are a restless moron! "Sh." suits me perfectly. And my full name is William Sher ...</em>
</p><p>The velvet mock is cut off along with the light turned off in the bathroom - water enters the ears, nose and throat, and in the thunderous flashes of X-rays Jim sees reflections on the glass body of the syringe, whose needle is stuck in the crook of his elbow; outside the window - through the chaotic flickering of small dots, like a swarm of midges constantly multiplying in a confined space, folding in the reflection of the moonlit path of the ice-covered sea in Barafundle Bay into a hunched figure, terrifyingly slowly turning to Griffith's face frozen behind glass: gray skin falls off with scabs cheekbones and nose, swaying in dead breath, when from dead lips it is awkwardly, uncertainly, as if from randomly thrown cubes with letters, the words are formed, drowning in the lonely cry of seagulls and the roar of hail beating on the seedlings:</p><p>- "You have nothing against me! You can't do anything!"</p><p>
  <em>- The next time you fall asleep, do not forget to gather all your will into a fist and tell yourself that this is a dream. If you properly tune in against the nightmare, it will not come ...</em>
</p><p>Nails painfully dig into the palms - with the eyes of an outline, James looks at himself, lying in an unnatural position: not quite on his back and not quite on his side, with a rolled towel between his legs, with a baggy t-shirt and no panties - only a blanket thrown over his leg covers his dignity - when stroboscopic flashes of lightning mercilessly clearly grab a hefty greenish-black spot no less than a newborn's head, oozing something serous and moist ...</p><p>From the last vision - <em>as if he was looking at himself through his memory </em>- James is out of breath, and, gasping for air, wakes up in his bed, trying to catch his gaze on something soothing, but even the familiar sight of the cracked ceiling and the fading flicker of a fluorescent starry card does not bring relief.</p><p>It seems that he has not really woken up yet - the night is outside, but instead of the usual sounds like the ticking of the clock, the buzzing of the wi-fi router and the snoring of his parents, he clearly, as if from the next room, hears the hysterical voice of Sh., clearly frightened by something:</p><p><em>- Mycroft, can you come? What do you mean "why", can you or not? Wendy's mom put things in order in the heads of the children, and you always behaved like a mom ... I need ... damn, I'm going crazy ... What list ?!</em> I'm not high!</p><p>- Let me clean up? - James says jokingly, still not shaking off his disturbing sleep to the end, and, waiting for an answer, gets up and lets in a plaintively meowing cat, while Sh. is silent for a few seconds.</p><p><em>- Okay, -</em> he suddenly agrees with some hopeless enthusiasm, - the <em>first and only rule: do not throw anything away. I'm looking for…</em></p><p>- Don't go on, it's plain as a nose on your face, I just dunno ... I've read this fairy tale, but I'm not Mrs. Darling, Billy, - James lies down on the bed, hugs the rattling Tom and covers his eyes with his hand, as if from a bright ...</p><p>Although why "like"? He really, like Alice in Wonderland, stands in the middle of a corridor filled with bright light, completely littered with doors - not only on the walls, but even on the ceiling, on the floor ...</p><p>
  <em>- Twenty meters toward the east wing.</em>
</p><p>It's like ... mental images, or something speculative, understood on an instinctive level only: he quite confidently - and not lame at all - wanders through a labyrinth that looks like either a torn up library, or a pirate ship, where a complete mess reigns, and sorts garbage bags scattered on the floor rotten apples and torn envelopes with bread crumbs and red wax seal, charred books and boxes of rosin, the smell of shaving gel and resentment, syringes and spoiled photos, fear of falling from the roof and broken flasks, thimbles and board games, and so on and so on.</p><p><em>“In the character of my friend Holmes, I was often struck by one feature: although in his mental work he was the most accurate and neat of people,”</em> - John Watstone's baritone sounds as clear as if he were broadcast on the radio, - <em>“and his clothes were not only neat, but also sophistication, in all other respects it was the most disorderly creature in the world, and his habits could drive crazy any person living with him under the same roof. "</em></p><p>The further James moves away from the point of departure, the more it seems to him that he was in vain in all this, but still, with patient accuracy, he puts whims, folders with personal files on empty shelves, pain in his fingers from playing the violin, risottos that smell like a pool chlorine flash drives, figurines from London's Chinatown and thoughts - <em>good up, bad down</em> - until, finally, he stumbles upon a black door with strange marks, as if spmeone tried to break it down repeatedly, both from the outside and from the inside. Jim calls out to Sh. a couple of times, but he apparently does not hear him; sighing, Griffith stretches with delight, feeling the numb joints crunching pleasantly, and puts his ear to the door: from behind it he can barely hear Richard Brooke's strange muttering - something about pies, a comfortable bed, crunchy dust of recycled homo sapiens and skulls on the shelf, but gradually the words become more distinct.</p><p>- Who the hell are you ?! -  shouts someone - it seems that this is the red-haired man from Kensington Park who came under fire from snowballs.</p><p><em>- I am youth, I am joy, I am a little bird!</em> - the Irishman answers mockingly, raising his voice with every word, - <em>I am his weakness! He likes me more than you, you whiny snowman!</em></p><p>- NO!!! - the walls tremble from an angry scream.</p><p><em>- I am fire! I am death!</em> - Brooke does not calm down; it seems as if he is not somewhere behind closed doors, but on the ceiling directly above his head.</p><p><em>- You are a drama queen!</em> - the same disembodied voice of Watson intervenes, and behind the closed door a deafening shot is heard, from which Griffith is thrown out of the corridor, and he abruptly wakes up in his own room, somehow unexpectedly flooded with summer sunlight.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>April 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>Oddly enough, but such a simple thing as self-tanning dramatically transforms James, and now his secret can be revealed only by inflamed lymph nodes in the neck and lameness, with which he successfully - if a "good" day falls out - copes. Everything is still bad with work, however, and  usually chatty Sh. is for some reason silent, no matter how much he calls, like Miles is a goddamn son of a bitch, because he hangs online in Skype and Facebook, even sends new posts, and messages hang as "read" ...</p><p>Towards evening, a few hours before the next arrival of Chloe, Mike and the girls, James once again swears with his parents because of work - "<em>don't fucking mind I like to sponge on you, mom</em>!" - and, slamming the door so hard that a cloud of dust has already risen, dismantles the littered bedside table in order to calm down a little, and stumbles upon a notebook in which he wrote down everything that happened to him in London when he was undergoing the second course of chemotherapy. </p><p>
  <em>- "... From 221B Baker Street to the right and forward until dawn," he said ... "</em>
</p><p>There is something in this ... Something familiar - like, he even was there in 1985 or 1986, with dad, in some museum ...</p><p>Without hesitation Griffith postpones cleaning until later and drives this address into a search engine, and stumbles upon the site www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk - almost empty, except for a few entries about the types of ashes, the degree of tension of natural fibers and the specifics of women's perfume: views and there are practically no comments - really, who the fuck will needs it? - but on the other hand, Jim, through some simple manipulations, finds the sender's IP and stumbles upon his blog, from several posts of which a cold sweat breaks through.</p><p><em>"</em> <em>June 05, 2008.</em></p><p>
  <em>For the past week it seems to me that someone is looking for me. Hope is an empty thing, of course, but I desperately want to believe that it is J.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>UPD: Apparently not - I couldn't see it, but it's definitely not him, but I still couldn't help but tell him to turn the telescope slightly to the side to show him the constellation Gemini. We're definitely somewhat alike. I'm sure his name is James too - but it's definitely not the same James. I'll call him Jamie. "</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"June 14, 2008.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It's strange. My finger was cut by itself.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>UPD. DW said that in a dream you can regain lost memories. I diligently write down my dreams."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"06 July 2008.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yes, James is definitely not the One, but I still can't really see him. It enrages. "</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"August 10, 2008.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Jamie has rhabdomyosarcoma. Just like Sherrinford had. "</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"November 1, 2008.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>First saw Jamie. At some point, it seemed to me that D. could well have hired him to steal Rufus Bruhl's children ... I really don't remember what happened there, Wiggy - the more so, but, apparently, for some reason I gave them an apple, marmalade and my ship".</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"February 14, 2009.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He first approached me himself. How? I'm in London and he is in a village in Wales. Why did I hear him? Damn it, I'll take that cocaine from Wiggy again. "</em>
</p><p>How? Where from? Is Sh. not so fictional?</p><p>Overwhelmed with anxiety and feeling as if he was dangling a lonely speck of dust in some interworld, Griffith fishes a can of Guinness out of the box from the computer - that's enough:  drugs mixed with alcohol cut him down much faster than without it ...</p><p>There are a lot of heavy thoughts,  and no less sips of bitter beer, pushing pills down the throat. Turning on the film "Apollo 13", Jim gently sits on the edge of the bed, breaks the thin necks of the ampoules and, typing tramadol and diphenhydramine into a syringe, tightens the arm just above the elbow with an elastic bandage.</p><p>- Jimmy! May I? - Chloe knocks on the door just at the moment when James, with his index and middle fingers hitting the crook of the elbow, as the nurse in the hospital showed him, so that the vein swells even more - so he will definitely not make a mistake and not let the mixture of medicines under his skin or into the flesh under the vessel - and smoothly presses the piston, injecting an almost instantly triggered pain reliever into the bloodstream. From the unexpected knock, he falls into a groggy state as if he was caught red-handed for something vile, shameful and criminal: from the mixture of adrenaline and drugs, his head starts spinning, and his hands shake in a shallow tremor.</p><p>- Wai, no...! - he blurts out and, pressing a cotton swab to the injection site, puts the used syringe into his pocket, limps to the table to throw the ampoules into the bucket.</p><p>- Coming, - without waiting, the sister enters the room, and the ampoules fall to the floor from weak fingers, - we...</p><p>- I said "NO"! For fuck's sake, Chlo! - he exclaims and, pulling back his sore leg, bends down to pick up the cursed garbage with his fingers shaking from the rising blood pressure - he cannot squat, otherwise he will shoot through the thigh so that at best he will not be able to straighten.</p><p>- Jimmy, why are your hands shaking? Let me help, - Chloe sits down next to him, but the guy, feeling how he starts to "smear", unconvincingly dismisses his sister and, with difficulty dropping to one knee, says:</p><p>- A? What? Don't ... Simple ... Forget it.</p><p><em>- James Kimberly Griffith! -</em> Chloe hisses and, ahead of his brother, raises the ampoule and frowns as he reads the small text, - why do you need tramadol?</p><p>- This is the medicine for mo… moyomo… mustard… … damn… mus-cu-lar, - he plops his ass right on the floor and lights a cigarette, watching the bizarre dance of plumes of smoke.</p><p>- Medicine?</p><p>- Yes, the acknowlegist ... uh ... the oncologist said that ... - he says purely automatically and immediately bites his tongue, realizing that, intoxicated with drugs and alcohol, he blurted out too much.</p><p>- <em>ONCOLOGIST</em>? - the sister glares at him in disbelief and somehow too theatrically covers her mouth with her hand.</p><p>- Be quiet, damn it! - he covers his face with his palm and hisses when the ash falls on the wrist and burns the thinning skin, sobering the mind that had been clouded over.</p><p>- Stop, are you kidding?</p><p>- What the fuck I gotta joke, sis? - James waves it off and, grasping the leg of the table, tries to get to his feet.</p><p>- I don’t know, you somehow played me that Davey had an epileptic seizure, bastard, - Chloe snorts and helps her brother up, - and what have you got?</p><p>- Rhabdomyosarcoma, third stage, - he mutters, with a certain amount of annoyance accepting the help of his sister, who carefully puts him on the bed and sits down next to him.</p><p>- When did you know?</p><p>- Last March.</p><p>- And you were hiding, - she says quietly and looks at him with a strange expression in her teary eyes, - why do you take care after to be such a moron, huh?</p><p>- The same who I take after to be so wickedly redhead, - sighs Griffith and again covers his face with his hand, - you sure did not adopt me?</p><p>- Who the hell will adopt such a fuckhead ? - the girl echoes him and lovingly strokes her brother on the shoulder, - no, damn it, Jimmy, I understand why you didn't tell your mother and father, but to me, <em>to me</em>, could you?</p><p>James opens his mouth to unleash an angry tirade on his sister, full of reminders of old secrets and sins, but closes his lips and buries his face in her warm thigh that smells like home, placing his head under Chloe's gentle hand.</p><p>For some time they are silent in a room illuminated only by a projector of the starry sky: gradually falling asleep James lies, resting his head in the lap of his sister, who thoughtfully and very carefully fingering his thinned hair.</p><p>- I think we should at least tell the guys, - Chloe says quietly, carefully covering Jim with a blanket.</p><p>- Maybe we will put an ad in the newspaper right away?</p><p>
  <strong>April 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>James is at war with himself for seven unbearably long days, not knowing how to tell his family about sarcoma or whether to talk, and does not even go downstairs when it comes time to get ready for the holiday. He allows himself this cowardice and weakness - and instead of joining the family painting eggs, he sits in the room and, to the accompaniment of the perky laughter of his nieces and the cheerful clinking of spoons on the bowls of dyes, sobs excitedly, sweetly, bitterly, even with howling into his pillow like a small child: he does not want, he cannot tell them - his father already had a stroke several years ago, and the mother also has a coronary stent, and the girls are as small as he will be ... No, he will not tell anyone anything. Hearing the cheerful greetings of his friends, Griffith splashes icy water on his reddened and slightly swollen eyes from tears, blows his nose, coughs, and looks in the mirror - it seems like it’s nothing like this: the self-tanner completely removed the painful look from his face, you can’t even say that he was something sick, except that he has noticeably lost weight - and, taking a deep breath, leaves the room, but freezes on the stairs, pondering how to get down without limping.</p><p>- ...How ? Working seventeen hours a day, - Norton's voice comes from the dining room, - I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm terribly busy!</p><p>James cannot help smiling: damn it, how he missed the guys! Even the resentment that they practically did not answer him since the last meeting, referring to being busy, disappeared somewhere, replaced by the joy of meeting.</p><p>- Oh-oh-oh-oh! - as soon as Griffith is below, he finds himself in the epicenter of a crazy disheveled-bearded-checkered hurricane named "Bill", pounced on him like a German shepherd puppy - you cosplay the "Machinist"! Mrs. G, why don't you throw something eatable or nutritive in his drinks? - he says and burst into laughter, as always, extremely pleased with his sense of humor.</p><p>- He’s not really eating meat lately, - his mother sighs, bringing a cart with meat honey balls, baked smoked ham, spring salad, sausages and bacon, glazed apples, potatoes in rosemary and garlic oil to the dinner table, and with the help of Chloe, Bill, and Davey arranges the dishes.</p><p>- He’s only looking vegan, - Norton says, wiping the glasses with a waffle towel with white feathers just in case,  - you should have seen him gobble up pork in the "White Bull" on our last trip to the Bay.</p><p>- No fucking way! - Chewie exclaims, opening bottle after bottle of homemade cider, - he was too busy then, as he dashingly danced to that eccentric violinist, it's strange that his legs did not come off.</p><p>James holds a jug of compote and smiles to his memory: then, in 2007, they celebrated his birthday in a cozy tavern on their way to Barafundle; at some point - Bill was just making a toast - Griffith's attention was captured by the violinist in Dioscurus mask, who was playing Bach's "Sonata №1 in G-minor". At some point</p><p>James holds a jug of compote and smiles at the memory: then, in 2007, they celebrated his birthday in a cozy tavern; at some point - Bill was just making a toast - Grifftith's attention was captured by the masked violinist Dioscurus, who was playing Bachs' Violin Sonata No. 1 in G minor; at some point the adagio changed the rhythm, smoothly turning into an unknown melody and Jim, having drained a third pint of beer, pushed a plaster cast of Pollux on his head, climbed the crooked cedar stage under the approving hooting of his friends, from which the musician did not stop in surprise, than Griffith take advantage and, moving from heel to toe with a sonorous step depicted ascending the stairs and knocking on the door. The instrument, in turn, under the player's thin fingers emitted a creak of the opening - the guy apparently hid his surprise and maintained a kind of dialogue, not otherwise - and James, licking his dry lips, turned to the crowd and effectively turned his torso around its axis during a single tap with the left leg in full readiness to switch to a fast pace to a sharply accelerated melody. The violin slips out of the grip, and Jim misses the opportunity to show everything he is capable of - namely, the “cramp” technique and a rather complex element of the schuchplattler, and stopped to catch his breath exactly at the moment when the accompanist again began to move the bow over the strings. Not bewildered, Dioscurus picked up the dance, but gave out his own frequency, under which the heated dancer began to beat almost professional - not Fred Astaire or Colin Dunn, of course, but no worse - tap dance with tricky steps; looking at each other - more precisely, turning their masks to each other - they created an amazingly harmonious pattern, as if this performance had been rehearsed to perfection - make us whole - conducting a non-verbal dialogue purely on a whim: the violinist walked towards James, who, without ceasing to dance, retreated, after which he began to wind circles around the musician and himself, accompanying the sound of heels with claps in the palm of his hand.</p><p>Dropping the applause - even the owners of the tavern, Mr. and Mrs. Tietjens,  forgetting about their duties, applaud, standing still - Jim and the violinist bow and go down from the roughly put together stage, after which the out of breath Griffith returns to the guys - the musician instantly disappears from sight, but the drunk dancer don't give a damn about that - and, sitting on the bench, orders more beer and pork steak with cranberry sauce and potatoes baked on charcoal.</p><p>- Jeewiz! - Bill raises his eyebrows in surprise and, unbuttoning his cowboy collar, generously splashes whiskey into Jim's empty glass, - well, bro, let's clink glasses.</p><p>- Actually, the whole point is to arrange all pas in the correct sequence, - says James philosophically, leaning back on the bench and unsuccessfully looking out for his companion in the crowd.</p><p>- But he ate pork. Like there's no tomorrow, - stubbornly bends his Bill.</p><p>- Jeewiz! - Bill raises his eyebrows in surprise and, unbuttoning his cowboy collar, generously splashes whiskey into Jim's empty glass, - well, bro, let's clink glasses.</p><p>- Actually, the whole point is to arrange all pas in the correct sequence, - says James philosophically, leaning back on the bench and unsuccessfully looking out for his companion in the crowd.</p><p> </p><p>- But he ate pork. Like there's no tomorrow, - stubbornly bends his Bill.</p><p>- Oh, yes, let's face it: Dance is his middle name, - Dave sarcastically retorts, and the bright image of dance in Griffith's head is completely erased by the feeling that everyone has forgotten that he is present in the dining room.</p><p>- Kimberly, actually. The tree of the Lord's garden, - he reminds of himself, sitting down on a chair closer to the girls, who have already launched their paws into the festive treat.</p><p>- Stop fiddling with your female name!</p><p>- David! Children are right there! - the mother grumbles reproachfully, and Bill, in his own manner, is responsible for his friend himself, raising his hands in an apologetic gesture and saying his unchanging:</p><p>- My bad, it's uh bust!</p><p>The festive dinner goes on quietly, peacefully and to the point of boredom family - the clinking of forks is interspersed with easy chatter, typical only for a narrow, family circle: the father mumbles monotonously about the rise in oil prices, Chloe, sometimes uneasily glancing at her brother, talks with mother about kindergartens, Bill is about the trip to Baja California, and Davey is about what kind of goats everyone around is at work are, and the doctors from Haverfordwest are generally mercantile horsemen:</p><p>- Yes, a complete outrage! So, I brought her to Haver, so the doctor gasps - look, you have SKIN everywhere! - and bills sixteen thousands. And palliative care - in general! What am I to them, Scrooge McFu...</p><p>- Beep beep, Davey! - besieges him McKensie, and the feast continues to flow as usual until the evening, when James leaves to put the girls to bed under the angry panting of Davie, who continues to swear:</p><p>- Well, I called this so-called doctor a jerk and a shit-eater, to which he replied, thathe is not a shit-eater, but a shit-listener, which irreparably humiliated my and my granny's human dignity ...</p><p>Slowly closing the door of nieces' chamber, he goes to his room to take pills that slow down the growth of malignant cells, completely forgetting about the painkiller, and does not have time to go back down, as he...</p><p>
  <em>- Be strong.</em>
</p><p>... hears Bill's voice:</p><p>- Abby, the boys and the Griffiths and I are sitting ... -  he frowns on the phone, frowning, - if they are whores, then yes, with whores. I know you are, but what am I?</p><p>Carried away by the thoughts of his nieces, Sh. and this bitch Abby who mercilessly corrodes the irrepressible joke of McKensie, whom he always admired, Jim, taking another bottle of cider, completely forgets about the need to hide his limp, and tumbles into the dining room, falling on the patient leg.</p><p>- Well, no one wants to say anything? - Dad suddenly says, seriously looking at those present with such a heavy look that Chloe can't stand it and gets up, straightening her blue dress with seagulls.</p><p>- I got a truth to tell!</p><p>Bill and Dave look at each other anxiously, and Griffiths' heart hoots somewhere in the heels, like the time when Chloe caught him taking medication, and James immediately understands what Sh. meant, and abruptly, from the doorway, blurts out:</p><p>- No, you don't.</p><p>The atmosphere in the dining room suddenly becomes cold and hostile, and evil sparks seem to run between siblings.</p><p>- James… - tears fill her sister's eyes as she sees Griffith leaning heavily on the doorframe, shifting his weight onto his good leg.</p><p>- No shit, Chloe, shut up, be so kind.</p><p>- What's to talk about? - Norton freezes, looking around in confusion and squeezing the glass too tightly in his hand - just a little more, and it will explode, piercing the fragments into the palm.</p><p>- Never mind, - Jim says casually, - drink your health.</p><p>- Mom, Dad, I have to tell you something. James...</p><p>- Has new  job. I'm moving to London to live with Janine and write essays for the Daily Express! - he says the first thing that comes to mind, clenching his free hand into a fist and noting how soft the nails have become.</p><p>- Yes? Our Jamie is like a sock: he can't find a match for himself, and if he finds one with a huge hole, - Bill grins, but Davey interrupts him:</p><p>- Bullshit! What's the matter ?!</p><p>- Nothing!</p><p>- James, this is important! - Chloe is definitely starting to lose her temper, and parents and friends just look at each other helplessly, watching the flaring up scandal - apparently, partly unable to stop him, and partly - in interest, which skeleton will fall out of the closet of their plain and simple family, - if you don’t tell yourself, I’ll do that!</p><p>- Don't you dare, bitch! - not holding back his anger, Jamie yells and, sharply pushing himself away from the support, miraculously keeps his balance and winces from a burning pain in his thigh.</p><p>- James Kimberly Griffith! - the mother throws up her hands, turning pale with fright, and it is because of her dead face that Jim feels a painful prick of conscience and mentally turns either to God or to Sh., asking them to give strength and courage to endure what will now happen in this fiesta which, instead of being bright and kind for the glory of the Lord, has become a shaking up of dirty linen and removing litter from the hut.</p><p>Fuck. What the hell is the difference now, if Easter is fucked up - <em>like a failed trip</em> - and hell with it.</p><p>- Great, damn it! - he waves his hands, splashing the contents of the bottle - all the same, this bastard will ruffle everything all over Stackpole, with or without his blessing, - do the fuck what you want! Lying, fucking ...</p><p>- Basta, - the eternally calm Mike, who has lost patience, interjects into a skirmish, - James, find your beloved woman and yell at her, but do not touch mine.</p><p>- Why the devil you are acting the wisenheimer here,  you fucking cocksucker?</p><p>- JAMES HAS CANCER! - Chloe shouts over him, and silence reigns in the room - dead and hopeless, as if their usually quiet house becomes a family crypt, where there is no hope - just grieving denial, horror and disbelief.</p><p>- You promised, whore! - Jim explodes and, not remembering himself with anger, - <em>bitch, fucking, fucking bitch!</em> - pounces on Chloe, feeling tears of resentment flow down her cheeks at the traitor with whom they have lived side by side for almost thirty years.</p><p>Mike and his father jump up at the same time and drag Griffith away from the girl, but he fights back desperately with a wounded beast, and now a scuffle takes place between the three of them.</p><p>- Brothers, guys, it's not the way! - Bill exclaims and together with Davey rushes to break up the fight; in the blink of an eye, he takes a raging friend in a neck grip with a confident and precise movement, while Norton disables Mike by pulling a T-shirt over his head.</p><p>- Fuck off! - Griffith miraculously breaks free from McKensie's tight grip, elbowing him somewhere in the solar plexus area, and already raises his fist to the side, as his son-in-law knocks him down with a sweep under a sore limb and stuns him with a hook in the jaw, from which it is incredibly bright, like fireworks in the dead of night on the coast, a flash of pain makes James scream and drown in blackness, so similar to the bottom of the Mariana Trench ...</p><p>... From which he is pulled out by the pungent smell of ammonia, from which he wants to simultaneously cough, sneeze and vomit.</p><p>- Davey?</p><p>- Shut up, - throws Norton, throwing away the cotton swab, puts a wet towel with ice wrapped in it to James's face, - no one accuses you of anything, but you have the responsibility.</p><p>- What ...</p><p>- Shut. Up, - Davey sings and hands Griffith a glass of water and a handful of pills, - drink it and sleep. Good night.</p><p>
  <strong>May 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>James as an evil and unsociable ghost wanders through empty corridors, getting confused in perception and getting lost in rooms and howling with fear - from the new medicine he does not recognize the walls of his home and forgets the beginning of a thought before it ends, and everything is so strange and alien around - hairs on the main phalanges of the fingers, deep scratches from the cat's claws on the door, curtains swaying from the warm wind through which the sun shines through, letting in blurry sunbeams, and an old gramophone spinning the same plate - something from the classics, it seems ...</p><p>Staggering and shaking his head like a cat caught in the rain, Griffith drinks prednisolone and dactinomycin right from the tap and, snorting off the water that has got into his nose, is about to leave the bathroom, as a bad chill runs down his spine: for some reason, it seems to him, as if the mirror above the sink does not just reflect the back of the head, but looks directly into the back; turning around with lightning speed, Jim sees Sh .'s curly top, which makes the tiled floor disappear from under his feet.</p><p>- I want to see your face, - he wheezes, and stretching out his hand to the mirror, passes through it and puts it on his shoulder to turn Sh. toward him, and feels other people's cold fingers on his shoulder, - what the...</p><p>Twitching at the reflection, James gasps - instead of seeing S., he again sees his curly head. He turns the double over and over again, but he remains with his back turned to him.</p><p>- Turn around, bitchen! Show your fucking face, bastard! - grasping Sh. tenaciously, Jim clenches his free hand into a fist and, with an aimed blow, slams it into the cursed back and breaks the mirror, which is falling into the faience bowl like a silvery rain.</p><p><em>-  You won't harm me like this! Come on, come on, come on! Today there is no time, tomorrow there will be no you, and the day after tomorrow I will disappear, smart guy!</em> - viciously and completely unlike himself laughs for a split second turned into Moriarty Sh., slightly turning his head towards Griffith so that he can now see his protruding cheekbone.</p><p>- What about <em>like that</em>? - James picks up the shard from the shell and runs it over his face, which causes a shallow cut on the double's cheek, visible in the shard left in the frame.</p><p><em>- Very very good</em>! - without changing position, S. claps his hands, - I owe you a gift, Jamie!</p><p>Exhausted, Griffith rubs the scratch and, taking a sleeping pill, plumps into bed.</p><p>
  <em>- Peace may be? </em>
</p><p>- Peace, - Jim agrees and covers himself with a winter blanket, trying to keep warm, and closes his eyes with relief when the body begins to slowly grow numb, and the consciousness turns off.</p><p>A strange, unearthly flickering in a dark cave beckons him, like a moth lost in the night, and hospitably invites him to be lost in it - and it's really worth it: stone walls and ceiling are completely dotted with myriads of fireflies, as if they were not insects at all, but a real starry sky.</p><p>When the eyes get used to the spectacle spread over him, Griffith recognizes among the accumulation of greenish lights the constellation of the Birds of Paradise - those that, according to ancient Malay beliefs, are born without legs and, not the name of the opportunity to make a nest, forever soar in the sky, changing its endless pattern.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. VIII. Amicos res secundae parant, adversae probant</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee</p><p>So far from home into my deeds to pry,</p><p>To find out shames and idle hours in me,</p><p>The scope and tenure of thy jealousy?</p><p>(с) W. Shakespeare, Sonet 61.</p><p>
  <strong>June 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>Hands clasped behind his head and stretched out in a chair, James glances over the text once more: he has just finished writing a tiny story — the drubble, as they are now called — about a boy with Asperger's syndrome named Archie, who is paired with the best man with the same diagnosis, he escaped from aunt Mary's wedding to the Waitomo caves on a bicycle bought from a cancer patient.</p><p>Griffith presses the send button and sits for a while, fingers folded in a prayer gesture, staring blankly at the email screen with Clavell's address; damn it, he wants to talk to Milo so much ... But the son of a bitch has been ignoring him for ... how long? Year? Two?</p><p>
  <em>— I think it’s extremely unwise to waste hours with someone who’s not worth five minutes of yours, Jamie.</em>
</p><p>— Oh, yes, give me some advice, something about life, work, relationships, what to be like. It's been a long time since I heard your fucking advice, — James sighs and absently runs his hand through his hair, squinting eyes out the window, where the warm wind gently sways the white sheets, making them look like something between clouds and sea waves glinting in the sun.</p><p>
  <em>“Okay, Miles, dash it. You won't read this either, okay, I got a taste of the fact that all my texts, calls and letters go nowhere, into darkness. I probably won't impose myself anymore, although I really want to talk to you — especially now, when ... Fuck it. Well, I'll write, of course, when your birthday becomes or something like that ... I hope you are doing well. Sincerely yours, James." </em>
</p><p>Sighing, Griffith turns off the computer and, getting to his feet heavily, slowly goes downstairs to smoke a cigarette or two sitting in the front garden with apple trees that he planted himself: once, while being a student in high school, sometimes he went with his parents to the market and each time he chose the most frail saplings of different varieties — from the unpretentious "Brumley" and "Trident" to the "Newtown Pippin" and "Beforest" that require vigilant care, in order to bring each tree back to life, and painstakingly, with stubbornness not wanting to believe in the death nursed them until they gave up under his pressure and began to bloom and bear their variegated and unexpectedly numerous fruits: yellow, red, green, like the lights of a traffic light.</p><p>Gently cutting off a dried apple tree branch and sitting on a bench, stretching out his long jeans legs far ahead, Griffith fumbles for a pack of cigarettes in his pocket and, striking a scratched and faded lighter, blissfully draws on, contemplating belatedly blossoming trees and indulging in unusually quiet and calm thoughts - for the first time since the diagnosis was made, he feels so ... <em>peaceful</em>, perhaps ... <em>like the dust dancing in the light of a projector at the cinema with thousands of his sisters in a ceaseless, flickering movement.</em></p><p>Twirling a twig in his free hand and scrolling this beautiful metaphor in his head, James looks up and, following a flock of birds with a sad screech flying across the pinkish-orange sunset sky past clouds that looks like white lambs, and begins thoughtfully and at the same time thoughtlessly to draw stars around two grains on the ground. The pain-killer, nicotine and the imprinted image of clouds clash with abstract reflections slowly floating in all directions, and Griffith encloses the resulting creation in a rectangle that unpleasantly resembles either a coffin with a veil, or a box with holes, and all this sends him to something elusive, like a satin ribbon that needs to be tied ... to something associated with endless loneliness and a journey either to oneself, or from oneself to the unknown, very own and last.</p><p>His april antics has already been forgotten — at least no one blames him for that nervous breakdown, not even Mike or Chloe — except that his parents tried to get into a tantrum, albeit unsuccessfully — and the shame almost never gnaws at James, like a worm gnawing the paths he knows alone in apple pulp; now — right now — he feels immensely relieved that his secret has come out, albeit in such an ugly way.  Not that a stone falls from the heart, of course, but all the same his soul felt much better — no one, thank God, fusses over him like a small child over a new toy (though, without a small — one might say  chamber-scandal — but the Griffith family always distinguished by its quick temper and amazing quickness), and does not torment with pitying glances, but the attitude has nevertheless changed and very strikingly: Mom stopped annoying about work, pestering him as before, or to poison him with kind of  fish-stuffed mushrooms — instead of this she quietly knocks on the door to ask whether to bring him tea, or what to cook for dinner, and does not take offense when he tells her to go wherever she wants to, and does not even resent when he runs out from the dinner table in another attack of nausea ... Dad  is completely quiet, calm and full of non-showy optimism, and does exactly the same thing that Jim did when he was seized by a stroke — he is not imposed, but is always somewhere nearby — just like that, just in case, arising where necessary and when necessary. Chloe, too, oddly enough, began to come with the girls much more often, knowing how much the younger brother loves to mess with his nieces — and now she certainly does not burst into his room without permission to enter.</p><p>But Griffith for no reason diligently avoids increased attention: in May, which he spent practically a hermit, locked himself in a room, fingering a cut on his cheek and cherishing his own illness, which made him the center of attention of his family — for the first time in several years, since then how sister got married and became pregnant with Clemens, — the parents raised enough money (father even sells his old car, with which he loved to poke around in the garage: <em>they say, it's enough to fix this bucket of nuts, it's better to fix his sonny-boy</em>) to continue his treatment, not without the help of compassionate neighbors, of course, because the smaller the town, the brighter the Santa Barbara becomes.</p><p>
  <strong>June 2009, hospital. St Bartholomew, London. </strong>
</p><p>— There's something I don't like here, James, — with suspicion looking at the patients smoking in the park, scurrying medical staff and light gray walls, says mother, — I'd rather ...</p><p>— You won't lie here, — the father grins and winks slyly at his son, — the main thing is that Jim is safe and sound.</p><p>— I would have talked to your doctor, — a woman with an enviable — and quite understandable — stubbornness does not give up her position, — and with a nurse ...</p><p>— Mom, I'm kinda capable to talk to them by myself, — he is already not holding back from a good-natured laugh, — everything will be fine, mom. Hope in our hearts and wings on our heels, — Jamie hugs his mother, who is still torn to "at least see the ward," and, straightening the straps of his backpack, hides in the corridors of Barts' oncology department  forward to the third chemotherapy: for now he is mentally ready to the fact that the regrown hair will fall out again, the body will incessantly twisted by excruciating spasms, and people exhausted by cancer will ply around again, but for some reason it seems to Jim that the most terrible and painful is left behind.</p><p>They put him in room B-612 — a quiet but unceasing groan is heard from the next one — where Griffith with a slight shadow of surprise recognizes a man with a neck now wrapped tightly and firmly to the very earlobes, who sat next to Bonneville in winter; before Jim has time to put the contents of the bag in the bedside table, he turns to Jim with a deaf, croaking voice, as if it struggles through a tumor in his throat:</p><p>— Not long before you, Hugh was lying on your bunk, by the way. He died two weeks ago.</p><p>— I ... um ... — Griffith does not immediately find what to answer: he was stunned not so much by the sad (albeit quite predictable) news, as by the strange, greedy savoring of it, — I'm sorry.</p><p>— And you ought to rejoice, — the man throws evily and gets out of bed with difficulty, — the old man had his torture finished. Count yourself drawing the only winning ticket in this fucking lottery.</p><p>— Seb, would you ... — tries to intervene a young dark-skinned guy, lying on his side and constantly looking at his watch — James for some reason suggests that he is waiting for either the time for the dispensing of medications, or binding — but the man is enough to glare at him turning with his whole body so that blackamoor would be silent.</p><p>Having made several circles around the ward, now and then groaning and wincing, as if from a prick, and grabbing at the bandage collar, Sebastian stops by Griffith's bed, leans over the back with his entire rigid upper half of his body and with some nasty and inappropriate pleasure lists everyone who died on the Jamie's spot, which makes him want to turn off like a boring radio broadcast, but all Griffith decides to do is mutter something not very legible and apologetic and, putting on headphones, bury himself in the tablet, to which the man muttered "not a guy but the discharging unit, damn youth", continues to measure the room with steps, referring to a mulatto or to an elderly Asian with a book or to himself.</p><p>Doctor's round by Mike Stamford temporarily suspends the restless bustle of the wrapped one: when Sebastian sees the physician, he immediately goes to his place and unwinds his bandage not completely, after which he modestly and meekly folds his calloused, work-worn hands on his knees.</p><p>— What are you reading, Mr. Van Kun?</p><p>As if surprised by a not entirely professional question, the Chinese man twists the faded, tattered cover and, carefully setting aside the folio, lies down on a tightly laid blanket like an army and puts his sunken stomach under the arms of the doctor, while a nurse with an earthy face distributes thermometers, clutching a plump notebook to her chest.</p><p>Stamford adjusts his thick-rimmed glasses and whispers something to a colleague — with a short nod she takes a few notes, collects the thermometers back and marks the points on the temperature charts hanging right on the backs of the beds.</p><p>— How's it going, Mr. Bainbridge? — the doctor turns to the young man and, wiping his hands on a towel, carefully removes the bandage from the scapula.</p><p>— Doctor, for the third week in a row I'm asking you to call me Stephen, — the guy answers mildly and twitches when the medic slightly turns his head, — and so — well ... okay. It hurts, but bearable.</p><p>— It's okay, this is normal, it will hurt for now. Greta, sign up for dacarbazine and temozolomide tomorrow... Well, my friend, — the doctor smiles with good-natured malice, — a couple more weeks — and we'll go to the operation, and there we'll be not far from home.</p><p>— Great, Bev will be glad, — Bainbridge is shining like a star with good news, —thank you very much!</p><p>— Well, what about you, Mr. Moran? — putting on gloves along the way, Stamford walks up to Sebastian, — is it better?</p><p>— No, — the man responds bleakly and, leaning forward a little, puts his neck out, — neither worse nor better. What, will you do another operation?</p><p>— I first need to look, — having blocked the man with his own body, Mike removes the rest of the bandage and touches something under it, — heals well, the structure is not so dense, the contours are less... On Monday we will take a picture, and now —  go for binding...</p><p>Moran leans forward with his whole body, imitating a nod and, holding a thin layer of bandage with his fingers from behind, leaves the room, giving Griffith a gloomy, envy look.</p><p>— And you...</p><p>— And I, — Jim smiles, — James Griffith.</p><p>— Yes, yes, I remember, Dr. Brooks told me about you, — Mike returns, — well, show me. Is there any pain?</p><p>— Well, in general, yes, it can gnaw around the clock, either way, — Jamie lies down and, bending over, lowers his linen pajama pants; the doctor's blissful expression instantly becomes tensely focused, as soon as he begins to gently palpate a purple bump on his thigh — at first almost imperceptibly, feeling the boundaries more and more with each circle.</p><p>— Does it hurt?</p><p>— You doctors are cunning people, you press there where it hurts, — Jim does not lose his presence of mind and, twisting, points his finger slightly below and to the left of the tumor, closer to the groin — yes, it hurts, and then he also sometimes bites further.</p><p>— And if I'll do like this, — clasping the edema with both hands, Stamford with the edge of his palm presses into the acetabulum, from which a sharp, explosion-like flash of lightning shakes Griffith from ribs to knee with thunder, — what kind of pain do you feel?</p><p>— Fucking-piercing-cutting, — James does not restrain himself, exhaling heavily with saliva through his teeth and wondering about the competence of the unexpectedly smiling bespectacled doctor.</p><p>— Very good, very good! It means that the nerve was not injured during radiotherapy, and it may not even be necessary to operate  the bone tissue! — from these words all the tension that has accumulated over two months is relieved like pressure in a steam boiler, and all nature is filled with relief, — Greta, be so kind to inject analginum for now, and tomorrow morning take blood sample, so that by lunchtime the transfusion will begin.</p><p>Having politely said goodbye to everyone, Stamford leaves for B-613 together with the nurse, and only Jim breathes out calmly, when Sebastian returns, even gloomier than usual, and begins to pace the room with restless steps again, periodically stopping at Griffith's bed and glancing at him badly, as if preparing to say something, but changing his mind at the last moment, until James can not stand it:</p><p>— Mr. Moran, what do you want from me?</p><p>Without answering Seb as abruptly as possible in his state turns away and lies down in his place, defiantly covering himself with a blanket.</p><p>The evening passes quite calmly, except for someone's lamentations through the wall and the strained puffing of a bandaged one: a chubby nanny who looks like a waitress from Oktoberfest brings dinner — boiled rice with stewed chicken, vegetable salad and tea, an elderly aid-woman is wiping the dust fluently, a nurse — already different, ruddy and affectionate — in a strange order known only to her, she delivers medicines: one has pills, another — a suspension, the third — a dropper, Jim gets an injection; the poor fellow from the next ward cries out thinly and pitifully, asking for a heating pad or an injection, or just whining quietly and again begging for anesthetic.</p><p>After skim milk with tasteless oatmeal cookies, Griffith, seizing the moment, goes out for a smoke break and furtively, purely out of idle curiosity, for which he immediately becomes embarrassed and ashamed, looks into B-613: there, behind the open door, a young fellow is seen — still quite a boy — all yellow and skinny, writhing on the knocked-down sheets and holding on to his swollen stomach.</p><p>Embarrassed, James descends and, quickly turning his cigarette into a charred filter, returns back, secretly hoping that Moran has already fallen asleep, but Sebastian is stomping back and forth with might and main, while the Chinese and the mulatto are playing chess, as if only now, after an evening round, they all came to life: nothing bothers them and nothing needs to be treated — as if they are in a sanatorium or a resort, and only a whining poor fellow faintly, without changing the tone, reminds of the real world.</p><p>
  <strong>June 2009, hospital. St Bartholomew, London. </strong>
</p><p>The morning also does not begin with "livin 'in the sunlight": even before the nurse on duty comes to take tests and measure the temperature, the unremitting groans of the unfortunate one turn into heavy, suffering, fainting pleas, as in Stephen King's "Dreamcatcher", when someone called Marcy — Jim is not even sure if he slept at all; awakened by something Moran also began to wind his damn circles, still not saying a word and incredibly unnerving not only Griffith, but also Tiu and Bainbridge, who, however, successfully pretended to ignore him.</p><p>Having calmly endured a rather painful chemistry session, James, returning to the ward and turning on the player so as not to hear Seb's mumbling and the sufferer's groans, falls into a deaf, stifling dreamless sleep, until he wakes up from the buzzing alert about an incoming message: an incomprehensible window has opened on the screen with the notification "<em>SH is writing you a message</em>", and James, feeling himself like Harry Potter during the correspondence in Tom Riddle's diary — there's too much shocking events for such a short term — could not pick up and reboot the device — instead, at his own peril and risk , he enters the conversation:</p><p>
  <em>SH: How many sunrises have you seen? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>DKG: Do I know you? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>SH: So how many sunrises have you seen? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>DKG: I'm sorry, but do I know you? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>SH: No. How many sunrises have you met? </em>
</p><p>— Hey you, holiday-maker, — Moran wheezes, blocking the light soundproofing created by the headphones, — can't you write quietly?</p><p>— I didn’t make a sound, and my phone just <em>vibrates</em>, — Jim responds irritably — not only is some bot scribbling to him as soon as the day brokes, but also this totalitarian asshole pokes his nose into other people's business things, — I even have a weak backlight , what do you want from me?</p><p>— I don’t like you, — Sebastian retorts, — Jeez I don’t like you.</p><p>— Well I'm not a fifty-pound bill to you like me, what's up? If I'm so bothering you, I'll ask Stamford to swap places with this one, — Jamie nods towards the next room, — is this company more acceptable?</p><p>— Oh, I see you're a smartass here, — the man barks, — you're wet behind the ears,  whiffet...</p><p>— Mr. Moran! — what an impudent man — Griffith sits abruptly on the bed and sighs chokingly, when a sharp ache does not keep waiting, — I would ask you to speak more politely.</p><p>— Me cago en la leche que mamaste.</p><p>— I also know how to offend in languages, the continuation of which I do not know, but I would prefer to keep them inside in order to avoid a scandal, — with difficulty resisting not to blurt out a phrase about mother and ass that he heard all in the scout camp from Iceland, Jim lies back down and again buries himself in the gadget.</p><p>— Indeed, Seb, stop it, — says Wang Kun and, glancing at his watch, once again puts down the book and takes out bone kuaizi from his bedside table, — don't make a row at least before breakfast.</p><p>Moran does not have time to answer — as soon as he opens his mouth, a new nanny enters the room, more like a bread saleswoman than a medical staff, and buzzes deeply with a Scottish accent:</p><p>— Well, boys, mommy has brought you a split pin and goodies. Who wants what? Today you can choose from oatmeal, omelet and cheese sandwiches.</p><p>— Do you have coffee? — asks Jim without much hope, not used to drinking anything for breakfast except a fragrant drink.</p><p>— Are you James? — asks the woman, and when Griffith nods in agreement, shrugs guiltily, — you are not supposed to get anything but water, today you only have lunch and dinner. Unless I can give tea.</p><p>He can hardly refrain from showing the middle finger to a viciously grinning Moran and, having drained an aluminum government mug — James did not guess to take the dishes with him to the hospital — he again stares again into the tablet in order to somehow abstract from the fair-haired man and the feeling of hunger in anticipation next meal.</p><p>
  <em>SH: So what about the sunrises? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>DKG: 3. So who are you? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>SH: What was your favorite toy as a child? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>DKG: Are you fucking kidding me?! </em>
</p><p>Griffith turns off the device and, turning on the MP3-player, opens the book — after rereading almost all English and German classicists, he switches to Russian literature (in particular, a certain Leonid Andreev), but it is impossible to delve into the text: Seb, who does not want to calm down, stubbornly refuses neither to lie down with a newspaper, nor just go out for a walk — it seems that his only entertainment is bust Jamie's balls.</p><p>After spitting — not to succumb to such a cheap provocation — he leaves Moran to Tiu and Stephen and, laying his fingers in the place in "Basil of Thebes", leaves to smoke — and again passes the wicked chamber, where the long-suffering boy is tormented.</p><p>Going out in such a fine day really feels like a fresh breath of air, even if he feels like being separated by a high fence from healthy Englishmen; almost all the benches are occupied by densely seated patients, and the only relatively free space Griffith sees is next to the hunched over Dr. Stamford.</p><p>— Hello there. I do hope I am not intruding, — asks Jamie, going to the peeling bench and involuntarily straightening under the warm sunlight.</p><p>— Ah, Mr. Griffith ... — hastily pulling out the headphones and putting away the phone, the doctor smiles tightly, — my shift is over, so it's okay.</p><p>— I would like to ask about Bonneville, — on the doctor's sleek, ruddy face, surprise slips for a split second — he probably thought that Jim would ask for himself but not for someone else, — well ... if not a medical secret. Well, you get the idea.</p><p>— We do not really have this here, you know. Everyone understands everything, — the doctor answers with a slight hesitation, — unless we do not tell the patients themselves. But Mr. Bonneville doesn't care, in theory.</p><p>— I just ... well, I just remember, we had a talk a couple of years ago, and he was doing well ... And I ... I would like to know what happened.</p><p>— Well, to put it simply, after discharge he returns got convulsions, we found a metastasis, picked up anticonvulsants, but then...  the growing paralysis of half of the body, pain, vomiting, a solid focus was found on the tomography in the deep parts of the occipital lobe with germination, died two weeks later. On the section there were blastoma and remnants of metastasis in the temporal lobe, almost completely destroyed by a more aggressive tumor ... — unnaturally calm, as if we are talking not about a fatal disease, but about some kind of cold — although a real doctor should look at a person as a plumber looks at a leaking pipe — the doctor's tone cuts his ears like a drill screwing into his temple, — did that tell you something?</p><p>— You mean that one cancer ate another? — surprised by the frankness of a doctor he hardly knew, Griffith sums up, shaking off the ashes from the cigarette.</p><p>— Exactly, — Mike sighs, picking the earth with his toe, dried out by the heat — the heavy seal of responsibility seems to gnaw at him from the inside no less than the tumors devour his patients — and looks sullenly at the smoldering light.</p><p>— Can I ask about the one from the thirteenth chamber?</p><p>— You can, but do you <em>need</em>?</p><p>— It's hard to say ... I won't tell him for sure if you are about <em>this</em>.</p><p>— Theo has a neglected seminoma — this is testicular cancer, to make a long story short, — throwing out the cigarette butt, the doctor gets up and hangs the bag over his shoulder, — with germination to the lungs.</p><p>— Fuck ... — Griffith does not hold back: damn, sometimes fate is so unfair — so young, and such a terrible situation ... — well, Mr. Stamford, thank you for your honesty.</p><p>Saying goodbye to the doctor, Jim thinks about the poor thing Theodore, whose life just remained on the other side of his illness, and smokes in the hope that, unlike the poor fellow, his chemistry will give good results this time too, and he will not have to think about again ...</p><p>— James! — Laura almost runs up to him, as if someone was chasing her, but freezes literally a couple of steps from the bench, with one hand neatly holding the collar of the dressing gown, and the other — a cigarette; it was no longer the same Briley, who "went for three days purely for a mammogram": aged by several lives, wilted like a cut flower — copper-golden hair faded and dangling with careless curls, her skin was gray, eyelids and nose were swollen, like an alcoholic who was beaten mercilessly.</p><p>— Laura, are you alright? — on the one hand, Griffith is glad to see a friend, but on the other he understands that God did not have mercy, and that something is wrong with her breasts.</p><p>— Huh? Me? — the girl gets lost and realizes and, throwing out the stump, awkwardly straightens her hair and freezes.</p><p>— Sit down already, and tell me.</p><p>Madly winding a strand on her finger, Briley sits down on the very edge, and again freezes, looking with tear-stained, swollen eyes not at Jim, but somewhere through his shoulder.</p><p>— Foxie, — well, she really is somewhat similar to a fox with this sharp nose, anxiety, almost cat's grace and copper hair, — foxie! Just tell, it will help.</p><p>Laura's lips begin to tremble, and Griffith takes her hand in his own just before the girl abruptly buries her face against his neck, shuddering in sobs.</p><p>— Is it <em>that </em>bad? — hugging the girl, Jim strokes the torn up and down back, feeling every protruding vertebra, — they will operate?</p><p>— They'll cut it off ... — Brealey responds hoarsely and, gasping for breath, howls  bitterly and drawn-out, so painful that Jamie cannot think of anything else but her misfortune.</p><p>— Maybe they can do without...? — slightly straightening the fabric of his shirt soaked with tears, Griffith persuades, — they will not cut it off but do a laparoscopy, burn out your seal there and that's it?</p><p>— The op is already appointed on Monday ... — Laura sobs and begins to moan even more desperately, as if she is threatened not with surgery, but with euthanasia, and Jim, not finding what to say, squeezes a thin, graceful hand, pitying the girl more than himself, — James, why should I live now? Who will need me this way?</p><p>— A lot of people, — kissed Brealey on the temple, he tries to console her, — you are  wonderful in all your guises, and people converge in spirituals, characters and so on ...</p><p>— What kind of fool loves for spirituals? — clearly knowing the price of a pretty face and a good body, Laura cries out indignantly and, breaking her embrace, turns to Griffith her gone red spots face, wet with tears, — would you start dating a one-breasted woman like a sore loser?!</p><p>— Why immediately a loser? — objects Jim, not at all offended: she hardly wanted to humiliate him personally, — external beauty is the last thing I pay attention to — and no, I'm not saying this out of pity.</p><p>— And how will I go to the beach? — wrapping head in her hands, shrieks Briley, as if Jamie is to blame for her illness, — or to the gym? To the club? How will I meet my destiny?</p><p>A terrible thought shoots the girl into the very heart, twisting and chewing like a meat grinder: fashionable separate swimsuits, lace underwear, strapless dresses and tight tops that she cannot even try on to show off in front of a mirror without tears until she does breast reconstruction, seem unbearable to Laura— as if a woman really has nothing to live for with a chestless life.</p><p>— What if I am your destiny? — clumsily, but almost sincerely smiles Griffith, — if, of course, you would start dating someone like me ... Well, you know ... five minutes less one-legged.</p><p>— Listen, — Brealey suddenly throws himself up and feverishly looks him straight in the eyes, — let's come to me.</p><p>— What for?</p><p>— Just go, — recklessly — the pupils have already dilated — Laura exhales and, standing up, pulls Jim's hand, — do me a favor.</p><p>— Um ... I ... — James does not even know what to argue — and it seems that he will not be able to convince the girl with anything: by giving a cane, she even helps him to get up, — what are you up to? — Griffith is already vaguely aware of Brealey’s thoughts, and he likes and dislikes the idea at the same time.</p><p>— Don't say anything, I'm afraid to change my mind, — she says, striding briskly toward the entrance.</p><p>Winking at the nurse, Laura takes Jim into her room and, closing the door on the latch, treats him with a homebrew.</p><p>— You’re the last one to see her, — she whispers, breathing the alcohol out and opening her robe, showing the world a soft peach nightie made of soft cotton, — you should kiss her.</p><p>Wiping away her tears and unbuttoning her shirt, Briley shows Griffith the doomed to be resected leftie that seems completely healthy — small, nulliparous, elastic, and presses his head against the upturned red nipple.</p><p>Breathing in the scent of warm, clean skin, Jim gently takes a tiny protrusion with his lips, runs his tongue over it, sucking it a little — very gently so as not to cause any discomfort — as a future child would kiss her, who would never do this with <em>this</em> breast.</p><p>— Kiss, — Laura asks, dropping tears on the back of his head, — and remember her like that, James. And I will remember too ... I will too...</p><p>... And Jamie kisses, partly even savoring the sad but at the same time bright moment, caresses the treasure entrusted to him.</p><p>Here and now — a treasure, and on Monday — a scrap of flesh on the pathologist's desk.</p><p>Yielding to an impulse, James breaks contact and, gently laying Briley on the bed, falls to her lips demanding and careful, while moving his body as far as possible so that the girl does not feel his boner; shivering slightly, Griffith hugs Laura's body, smelling of a mixture of conditioner for clothes, floral perfume and antiseptic — and through the gap between the buttons of the robe  runs his hand into her cotton panties, feeling the tenderness of soft, long-unshaven — and probably fiery-red — hairs on pubis and a special, viscous moisture, when the fingers feel the pliable flesh tightened around them.</p><p>— Oh God, Jim ... — Laura gasps, as soon as he gets into her insides and gropes for the G-spot and, scattering on the sheets, spreads her legs and throws her head back, twisting the sheets gray from frequent washings.</p><p>James practically hangs over her, leaning against the springy bed and not daring to put the sluggishly swollen dick into action, continues to move his hand; for some reason, Briley's face is replaced by Vi — his first girlfriend who studied in eleventh grade while Griffith was in ninth, a plump blonde with awesome racks and a cellulite ass.</p><p>Then she flows into a thin, reminiscent of a stuffed rope Christie — pale, black-haired and cow-eyed, and after — <em>Janine... Jim is cheating on Janine ...</em> — although what a hell of a cheat it is if she turned out to be a scum lying under Davey. ..</p><p>Laura's voluptuous smile transformes into the lustful grin of a strangled whore — wait, did he strangle Hawkins in the seat of his father's car? — and Griffith can hardly restrain himself not to box the ear to the girl that sprawled under him — alive, real, the one who looks at him with burning as from a fever eyes of amazing hazel color.</p><p>Dismounting, he apologizes and with cheeks flaming with shame hastily hides the "sword in its scabbard" and rushes to leave the room, but Laura with a kind of inhuman understanding rewards him with a scanty kiss on the temple and goes after him into the street, where they sit in the hospital park and, separated by a high fence from healthy Englishmen, they smoke, discussing all sorts of little things in life — and diligently avoiding discussing the situation ten minutes ago — talking about everything and nothing at once, as if more patients leave their ward than are discharged.</p><p>
  <strong>June 2009, hospital. St Bartholomew, London.</strong>
</p><p>Shaking in unison with Moran's restless stomp, as if on a boat plowing the Celtic Sea, dissolving in this restless walking, James, with the rustle of pages and quiet negotiations, falls asleep — muffled and suppressed, with a vague image of a brown-eyed boy numb with horror (<em>good Lord, he can't do anything, nothing at all, they gotta call rescuers</em>) — and just as drearily and stiflingly emerges from the slumber in the middle of the night, in silence and darkness — only the faint glow of the lamp from the nurse's post penetrates the room through the gap between the floor and the door. Griffith tries to lie on his back, but the slight movement tightens the skin on his thigh, squeezing the tumor, and a jagged blade of pain steamed him; quietly, so as not to wake up the neighbors, he tiptoes into the toilet: his face, unnaturally white, seems somehow alien, as if he is not in his body, and the fault is either a fragment of a vague dream, or a consequence of medications ...</p><p>Jim splashes cold water on his face generously and, leaning on the sink, looks into the mirror that gives off a sickly green, and freezes: at the distance of his half-outstretched hand, with which an obese — <em>fat </em>— boy pulled himself up, making his way through a narrow manhole, Robert looks at him from the reflection — such the same pale, frightened pupils dilated to the size of a penny practically overshadow the light-brown iris ...</p><p><em>— </em><em>Mr. Griffith, I'm stuck, —</em> the boy stifles, and Griffith's heart hoots: this shouldn't have happened, and even though it's been many years, and everything ended well with Rob, and he understands that this is just a memory, but now, right now, Jamie feels the suppressed panic bubbling in him again.</p><p>— Rob, I'm <em>so</em> sorry, — banging a butt somewhere in his head again, — if you climbed first, then ...</p><p><em>— Yes, but you’re the youth-leader here, you’re in </em>charge<em>,</em> — the cheeky face snatched out in a pathetic piece of the headlamp beam turns purple, sags, decomposes, — <em>I died, and this is </em>your <em>fault</em> ...</p><p>— You are not dead... — Griffith chokes in his own horror that he had broken through it then, in the toothless mouth of the Koygan Cave, which they almost crawled — in the gap, the deathly gray sky of a cloudy June day in Carmarthenshire was already visible, — you are <em>not dead</em>...</p><p><em>— I am shut up for long days under lock and key in the isolation cell</em>, — blinking a couple of times and cracking, like a fly hitting a lantern, the only source of light disappears, and at the same time as the darkness just started to break, Robert's boyish treble is imperceptibly replaced by a languid tenor with a slight hoarseness, — <em>where can I go that's worse than where I've already been?</em></p><p>— This is not real, — clutching the edges of the ceramic bowl, Griffith shakes his head: he remembers exactly that the cheeky Zara, who followed them on an expedition to the westernmost place where the stone axes of the Neanderthals were found, hollowed out the vault of the cave over Rob's back, crawled back and, stretching out her arms, grabbed the boy by the leg and when she could not drag the guy back, she ran for help, — we got out of there...</p><p> <em>— I still </em><em>have a certain</em><em> "what's the good of getting </em><em>better?" feeling,</em> — sobbing, continues the body immersed in the darkness, firmly holding Jim by the untied lace of his sneakers, — <em>if I were you, I would not hesitate for a minute and left the station just like that, in uniform ... However the unbearable, </em>unbearable <em>hallucinations have stopped, reducing to simple nightmares.</em> <em>Physically, I am well,</em> <em>the wound is closing </em><em>very well </em>—<em> who would have thought that you can survive by putting a bullet in your mouth </em>— <em> and the great </em><em>loss of blood is balancing </em><em>out, except that the right eye does not see anything. The most fearsome thing is insomnia. I feel weak, a little anxious and, worst of all, a loser — but we are all here ...</em></p><p><em>— Float, — </em>is heard no longer from the mirror but behind his back, and Griffith feeling someone grabs his ankle with an icy hand, squeals and jerks to the side, strongly pressing his back against the wall; at the level of the handle of the door frame of an unclosed bathroom, fingers appear — dense, firmly planted on a wide palm — and, playfully tapping on a cheap wood, they rise and fall, as if on an invisible keyboard — the nail plates peel off from the phalanges easily, like the skin from a steamed tomato, falling like almond flakes on the rubbed linoleum and showing bloodless holes, <em>— we all fly, fall and float...</em></p><p>Powerlessly squeezing into the cold tile of the wall, Jim gasps: this cannot be reality, this does not happen — <em>control, control! The main thing now is control! </em>— and helplessly sits on the floor, trying to call for help, but the voice seems to be tied in a sea knot; yes, now he is in the toilet of ward B-612, exactly the same as all wards in all hospitals, but this nonsense goes too far: hearing voices is still okay, but such hallucinations are already too much; he seems to be slipping back into the nightmare from which he just escaped, feeling the same fear and total loneliness ... Even worse — Griffith feels <em>dead</em>, at some point his right thigh starts to itch because of maggots swarming in the flesh.</p><p>
  <strong>June 2009, hospital. St Bartholomew, London.</strong>
</p><p>One day — towards the end of the course — James goes out alone, and when he peacefully smokes on a bench blowing out streams of smoke from his mouth, he suddenly falls to the ground from a clearly delivered blow to the face, while a strange short man with gray hair screams:</p><p>— Fuck you asshole, Holmes, I'm looking for you all over London, you goddamn addict!</p><p>— Hey, what the fuck? — outrages Griffith, hissing from a shot in his leg due to falling pain, and tries to get up, rubbing his cheek, and intently examines the offender, looking directly into his blue eyes, wide open with horror and remorse.</p><p>— Oh, I'm sorry ... — he whispers in shock, realizing that he was mistaken, — are you ... are you all right, young man? You just…</p><p>— Looking like your friend? — James grins, letting the stranger help him to his feet.</p><p>— Yes, kinda this ... Oh, I do apologise, — mutters this strange man who looks like a frightened hedgehog, but James brushes him off with a pretty shabby "I'm fine" lately and limps to the hospital, leaving a stranger with a hair on the street. There, in the ward, a barely catching meager hospital wi-fi tablet is charging, because of the incessant poking at which the neighbors in the ward call it a "discharge device", with an open chat, where a strange interlocutor is waiting for him, still ignoring Griffith's questions, not even it is highlighted that he reads them — with the exception of one, from the twenty-sixth:</p><p>
  <em>DKG: So why I have cancer? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>SH: Just because I'm a certified chemist doesn't mean that I can't help but understand why your body is rebelling and starting to devour itself. Isn't it hateful? </em>
</p><p>Returning from a meeting with a hedgehog man, James is surprised not to find his counterpart online, only a chat window flashing the message “<em>SH: I'm leaving early. Tootle-oo!" </em>collapsed and the tablet rebooted.</p><p>
  <strong>July 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>As soon as James arrives home, it turns out that he needs to get ready for the road again — though not so far — to Cheriton, which is very close to Stackpole: Davey's grandmother who fell ill a year and a half ago still suffered a lot and went to the next world, having lived to ninety years old.</p><p>Expressing his condolences and settling himself on a garden swing, Jim folds a pile of drafts about Sherlock and Moriarty on his knees and scribbles their names thoughtfully in Gothic script so that one smoothly flows into the other, but instead of thinking about the story, he mentally hovers in Llangollen, a small town with a population of three thousand, God forbid, where they stayed with Ygraine and Paderai — Davey's progenitors — in the late eighties.</p><p>— Boys, let’s roll to sasages!</p><p> — Gran, let us sleep! — hugging a pillow, Norton whines lazily; awakened by Milo and Bill, tossing and turning by the stove, grumbling somehow quite like an old man, and Jim, who woke up a few hours ago due to the clucking of chickens in the mudroom and still did not get up just because of natural laziness and cat named Daisy, stretching sweetly under a thin blanket.</p><p>— Eat sasages and sleep as long as you wanna! — Ygraine enters the room, wiping hands rough from work on an apron, and through the opened door from the kitchen comes the delicious aroma of grilled eggs and bacon, oatmeal in milk with butter and jam, freshly baked speckled bread and brewed herbal tea.</p><p>Drawn by the wonderful smell, the boys reluctantly get up, trudge into the courtyard, where they pour spring water on each other and, snorting and splashing like wet dogs, go to breakfast, noisily discussing how they will run to Dee to finish building the raft, so that later they will swim with local boys to catch perch and ...</p><p><em>... The bow of the white boat rips open the surface of the water, like an icebreaker on the cover of the single "Rammstein", and twitches, bumping into something solid ... something </em>alive <em>and very large — they just swam out into the open sea to look at the whales ... </em></p><p>Startled by a rather weird and not particularly appropriate memory, James uncorks another bottle of beer and lights a cigarette; puffs of smoke in the humid night air line up in strange shapes — vague and difficult to identify, but awakening seemingly long-forgotten memories, looming before his eyes with an idiotic gap between the moment when the boat rocked dangerously and he was thrown overboard and when it opened eyes and vomited from the water filling the stomach. Father was as pale as death, mother and Chloe fought in hysterics, and a red-faced ferryman in a yellow windbreaker pressed hard on his chest ...</p><p>He is distracted from his disturbing thoughts by the uneven, ragged movement seen only with peripheral vision where it <em>should not be</em> — namely, in the window of Griffith's room, into which no one enters a priori, except for Jim himself or the cat and the dog — Ted Chan's heptapodes for some reason come to mind: the lights are turned off abruptly and the curtains are swaying, as if someone had pulled the curtains abruptly. Throwing away both the cigarette butt, and the half-empty container, and the workbook, James rises to his room as quickly as possible, but predictably does not find anyone there, and does not dare to ask any of the household members about a visit to his den.</p><p>
  <strong>July 2009, Pembrokeshire, Cheriton.</strong>
</p><p>— Lord, accept my condolences, dude, — putting all the sympathy that he is capable of, says Jim, thinking to himself that no matter how hard he tries, he will not be able to properly support his friend in his loss; he doesn't really remember the oldie either — yes, once they spent the summer in her hut at the end of the world, she still seemed to be notoriously cursing and when asked why she didn’t have a dog, she answered that she was like a dog herself — "kiddo, I can rail  at anyone much better than any fucking barking rattlebones, sweet God do forgive me."</p><p>During parting, while the priest reads the prayer service, Griffith notices a couple of things that stabbed his heart: the closed coffin in which the Ygraine lay was covered with a blanket from the seamy side of fabric — <em>wrong, wrong, wrong, </em>and most of those present are looking not at the service, but at him, and this already unpleasant sensation is superimposed on the heavy smell of unnaturally bright, like artificial flowers, from which the cold smell of death blows.</p><p>After the memorial service, all the mourners leave the funeral hall, go out for a smoke break and exchange quiet remarks while waiting for the body of the deceased to be burned and taken out into the street, so that, according to ancient Welsh custom, the ashes are scattered in the wind. While everyone is smoking, James, who managed to secretly crush a joint with McKensie, excuses himself, leaves a small area designed specifically for this and hobbles to the gravestones to visit the grave of Milo's father, who, by the way, decided to ignore the whole company without arriving in Cheriton.</p><p>Having reached the grave of Mr. Clavell, Griffith stands in silence for a while, mentally communicating with the writer, leaves a cigarette at the tombstone and runs his fingers along the granite memorial, recalling that terrible spring when he and Miles, being still schoolchildren, last went to the Bosherston hospice ...</p><p>Then Mr. Clavell affectionately — usually he was extremely out of sorts, but, apparently, that day they came to him just at the moment when the heart accelerated morphine through the blood — patted their swirling tops and, wheezing a little, hissed to James that life is not something that can be planned: on the contrary, it consists of sudden and unexpected decisions that you make during a force majeure, and spontaneous choices that your friends make; he also said something to his son, but what exactly — James could not hear, and he did not find it appropriate to pester his friend then or later, until it was forgotten for a good twelve years.</p><p>While the boys were taken aback to comprehend the statements, the man entangled in a web of wires and silicone tubes began to wheeze, but unexpectedly quickly fell silent, as soon as the pulsating green line of the cardiograph straightened up.</p><p>— Hey Jimbo! — Bill's voice pulls James out of a bad memory — quickly and painfully, like an injection past a vein made by an inexperienced nurse — why are you stuck there? Go! The priest has created!</p><p>During the last part of the ceremony, James curses himself for standing next to Bill — this shaggy half-fool has already managed to " rest culturally" and in every possible way commented in his ear, like a neighbor on the armchair interfering with watching a movie normally — and Griffith makes every effort to don't laugh in the middle of a funeral.</p><p>— Today we say goodbye to Ygraine — our mother, grandmother, sister, aunt and friend ...</p><p>— Fuck, Jimbo, they seem to bury the whole family at once ... Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor... — he whispers, pouring hot breath on his auricle, and the smell of alcohol on his nose, and James, still drugged with marijuana, diligently hides his laugh behind a sad groan.</p><p>More or less he comes to life an hour later, when they find themselves directly in Davey's house for a memorial dinner — the food, as expected, mainly consists of simple snacks, salads, apple juice and apple cider.</p><p>James does not particularly listen to the conversation at the table — he is more occupied with the scattered stubs of thoughts about Laura, Melissa's juicy milkings, the strange silence of SH and his own funeral — but when, purely out of politeness, he puts a disgusting-looking steak and some incomprehensible green garbage on his plate, sitting next to him mother mutters in his ear:</p><p>— Angel boy, maybe you shouldn't feed cancer with these carcinogens?</p><p>— Fucking fine, — he hisses, already irritated and tired, — then throw some tea to my sarcoma, damn it</p><p>
  <strong>August 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole. </strong>
</p><p>— Thank you, Mom, — James squeezes his mother’s hand slightly as she touches his shoulder and returns the glass to her, — good night.</p><p>— Sleep well, Angel boy, — the woman gently kisses him on the cheek and leaves the room, leaving Jim alone with a warm August night; however, not even five minutes have passed when a characteristic scratching and a drawn-out battle howl is heard under the door — it even seems that in the sounds the pet makes, the "open" slips.</p><p>Tiredly running his hand over his face, Griffith shakes himself out of the pile of blankets to open the entrance, but instead of entering the room, Tom remains on the threshold, ears flattened and aggressively arching his back, without shutting up.</p><p>— Come in already, fleay moron. Or are you waiting for the one you are looking at to come when you stare into the void?</p><p><em>"No, he wants </em>you<em> to come out."</em></p><p>Bending down to the floor and perking up its ears, the cat suspiciously sniffs the window and walks around the room, after which, clawing a chair, returns to the threshold and curls up, staring at the tulle swaying in the wind.</p><p>Turning on the bedside lamp, Griffith without looking rummages through pretty much — almost to the holes — a book about Peter Pan, battered from endless rereading, in order to once again look at an illustration, made on the flyleaf with his own hand, depicting the triangle α Centauri A, B and C.</p><p>James tries to remember the scientific name of all three stars, but the words slip away, replaced by vague reasoning: letters indicating which children's souls to take to which parents are probably being handed out to the birds on the shores of the apple valleys of the first star. The second star gives light and warmth to the little planet revolving around it, where Peter himself lives in Neverland with his lost boys, fairies, pirates and mermaids. And the third star is probably the last point of the last journey — after all, before being born somewhere, you need to die somewhere?</p><p>Sighing wearily, Griffith closes the book and, leaning back on the pillow, looks out the window at the sky, through which strange,  holey clouds float. Trying to take a better look at them, Jim narrows his eyes, and the eyelids stick together by themselves, separating him from the contemplation of the night in the warm embrace of Morpheus, whispering surprisingly calm dreams in his ear, full of something blue, gentle and peaceful.</p><p>... Meanwhile, a huge ship with brightly lit windows sails up to one of the houses sleeping in the quiet of Pembrokeshire, and from the almost weightless breath of a light breeze smelling of pine needles, the sea and biscuits dipped in tea, the snow-white tulle barely sways, and in the gleams of fabric is visible a small hole in the night dome of heaven.</p><p>The dark outline of a tall man pushes the curtains and slips through the open window, but clings to a nail sticking out of the sill with a scarf, and silently falls to the floor without disturbing the sleep of James, who lowered his relaxed hands, still holding the fairy tale, onto a thin blue blanket.</p><p>The mysterious visitor tiptoes — God forbid waking — gently approaches the bed to pick up the book, and carefully settles down with her on an unexpectedly loudly squeaking chair, from which Jim wakes up and awkwardly sits on the bed, squinting against the bright light of the lamp overhead.</p><p>— Um ... can I help you with something? — oh, what the fuck is he talking about? This is clearly not a kind fairy godmother who visited to give a forgotten gift, and it was not Peter Pan who flew in to pick him up on his island.</p><p><em>— It is highly quiestionable,</em> — the stranger interrupts and turns his face to Griffith, from which he becomes speechless and recoils, pressing his head against the shelf with trinkets and comics: this shock cannot be understood with the mind, this can only be experienced — he practically looks at him himself, only beautiful, like Mercury descended from Botticelli's canvas: the same wide dark eyebrows, bizarrely contoured lips, almond-shaped small eyes, sharp cheekbones — on one there is a rather deep cut — a long face. Even their moles were the same: light above the left eyebrow, several small ones at the bottom of the jaw, rather large next to the Adam's apple, and Griffith has no doubts that, unbutton the uninvited guest, several buttons of a silk shirt that sits on him like a glove, then on the left side his chest will be the same Cassiopeia.</p><p>— You ... — James dies on a half sigh: is it really him? The one who showed him the Waitomo cave in his dream, the one who lamented about his sarcoma, the one who asked his brother to put things in order in his head?</p><p><em>— William Sherlock Scott Holmes,</em> — says the night visitor, smiling from the corner of his mouth, from which half of his face from temple to the bottom of the jaw is streaked with a cobweb of long and thin wrinkles, — <em>a private detective consultant</em>.</p><p>So this is it, this "Sh."! <em>She-e-erlock</em>. A delightful combination of eight letters or six phones glides and rolls like a lemon-honey "Halls" lollipop, whose round notches and quadrature edges create a real articulatory symphony in the mouth.</p><p><em>She-e-erlock</em>. The necessarily wide front edge of the tongue is raised up, forming a gap between the hard palate near the upper front incisors, while the lateral edges of the tongue are tightly pressed against the upper molars — [ʃ]. Slight tension of the vocal cords pushing out a reduced but stressed vowel [ɜː]. The tip of the cupped tongue trembles under the pressure of exhaled air, vibrating on the sound [r], and immediately flattens, spreading out into [l]. The lips are slightly stretched into a tube, kissing the air [ɒ], and the throat contracts, releasing [k] through the bow at the border of the hard and raised soft palate.</p><p><em>She-e-erlock.</em> A name that should be written not with a pencil, but with gold paint.</p><p>— I have never heard that there are consulting detectives, — not fully recovering from the shock, says Griffith, a little shy in front of his twin, because he is like the personification of luxury: an expensive suit, though worn out, but still chic shoes, perfect hair, deliciously smooth skin, while James is simplicity itself in a stretched jumper, dangling at the cuffs and collar and washed pants, all covered in a strange rash and disheveled like a teenager from a dysfunctional family.</p><p><em>— Because I invented this profession myself</em>, — Holmes chuckles, drumming his sleek fingers on the cover of Peter Pan.</p><p>— Oh. I see, — smiling, James sits on the bed, wondering whether to shake his guest's hand and offer him a cup of tea? — then I'm not a writing writer.</p><p>Sherlock's face sharply becomes focused, as if he already had some guesses about Griffith, and now he checks the veracity of his fabrications, studying the facial expressions and body language of the interlocutor.</p><p><em>—  Jamie, you absolutely don’t need to tell me about yourself,</em> — he says seriously and thoughtfully, leaning forward slightly.</p><p>— Why?</p><p>
  <em>— Because one look is enough for me to tell you everything that you hate in yourself, after which I will crumple and throw you away like an unnecessary piece of paper. </em>
</p><p>— Well, why so rude?</p><p><em>— I don’t have time to scrape with…—</em> Holmes narrowed his eyes: the left eye is slightly stronger than the right one, — <em>a thirty-year-old child with a purposeless and meaningless life, a limited couch potato, who is fond of agronomy and astronomy, who decided to squander his potential on writing — completely in va...</em></p><p>The detective cuts himself off in mid-sentence and gracefully wrinkles his slightly upturned nose, clearly annoyed to be interrupted by Tom, who for some reason really needed to find out what kind of night guest had visited his writer. Arching his back in an arc and straightening his paws, he suspiciously sniffs the guest, emitting a uterine growl, or a buzz; the cat is clearly disoriented, because the owner and the guest have exactly the same but different smell.</p><p>
  <em>— What's this?</em>
</p><p>— What, Sherlock, is your precious deduction broken? — James allows himself a smile and touches his thigh lightly, checking to see if the bandage has slipped to prevent infection from entering the small ulceration in the skin left by the radiotherapy, while Holmes snorts, trying his best not to laugh.</p><p>Griffith leans on the headboard and struggles to get up, noisily poking through clenched teeth, and shuffles to Holmes to pick up the pet and take ше out of the room, but Tom stops hissing and starts sniffing the fingers of a slightly alert Sherlock holding the phone to take a picture.</p><p>— Do not be afraid, it will not bite, — sitting on a heap of blankets of blankets, Jim giggles, — Tom is dehilmented and defaberrated, just a very highly active sociocat, especially when it comes to strangers.</p><p><em>— I'm not afraid and not a stranger, </em>— the detective with a sadistic grin presses something on his "blackberry" and holding a cigarette between his teeth, calmly and rather carelessly takes the displeasedly meowed animal in his arms so as to look into his gray-blue eyes.</p><p><em>— </em>Don’t offend the cat.</p><p>— Me? <em>No way,</em> — grins Sherlock, and peacefully turns to the pet, — <em>Thomas, your speech is meaningless and unfounded, so be kind, don't yell, let the stupid big cats talk.</em></p><p>From the seriousness and at the same time stupidity of what is happening, James is again disassembled by uncontrollable laughter — right up to a cough — and after a couple of moments, Holmes, still holding the cat, joins him, laughing in a low, velvety overtone that any opera singer would envy, but immediately breaks off, glaring at Griffith with a hard look:</p><p>
  <em>— You need to be more careful. </em>
</p><p>— Why?</p><p>
  <em>— Janine was extremely surprised when she saw me at Mary and John's wedding. And we had to deal with her ... thoroughly. I don't even want to know that Mycroft did this to keep her silent. He saw you there. In Kensington Gardens.</em>
</p><p>— Only my eyes...</p><p>
  <em>— So this is the most important thing, you foolish head. And how John endured my brain when he almost beat you up, confusing you with me ...</em>
</p><p><em>— </em>Mycroft is which of the two?</p><p>
  <em>— The with an umbrella, he always walks with him, like Ole-Luk-oie, only he throws sand  not in my eyes but in others, plus everything ... </em>
</p><p>— “<em>I danced for the fishermen,

For James and John

They came with me

And the Dance went on<em>».</em></em></p><p>
  <em>
    <em></em>
  </em>
</p><p>Cursing that he was being interrupted again, Sherlock picks up the phone in annoyance and hisses into the speaker:</p><p>
  <em>
    <em></em>
  </em>
</p><p><em>— What's new about this one, Lestrade?</em> — from the words of the interlocutor, his eyes widen with admiration, and his face begins to shine, as if he heard that everything he only dreamed of has finally come true — <em>yes. But not in a police car, I'll be right behind.</em></p><p>
  <em>
    <em></em>
  </em>
</p><p>After ending the call, Holmes clenches his fists and, jumping up from his chair, jumps up and down like a ten-year-old boy who has received a radio-controlled car for his birthday.</p><p>
  <em>
    <em></em>
  </em>
</p><p><em>— Brilliant! </em>Yes!<em> Four serial suicides and now a note, Oh, it's Christmas in August! </em></p><p>
  <em>
    <em></em>
  </em>
</p><p>It takes him a split second — just in the time that James blinks — to disappear, leaving behind only a slight crush on the chair.</p><p>
  <em>
    <em></em>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. IX. The Reichenbach Feel.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>...Still you, you,</p><p>And again, you.</p><p>Concealed in me is</p><p>a sea:</p><p>How could I hide it?</p><p>Tonight from your eyes’ sky<br/>Stars rain</p><p>On my poem,<br/>My fingers spark,</p><p>Set ablaze<br/>The muteness of these blank pages.</p><p>(с) Forugh Farrokhzad <em>—</em> "On Loving"</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>September 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>The last two weeks of summer and the first days of autumn James feels himself as being suspended above the ground in a frozen leap: thanks to that addictive dream, Sh. finally acquired a name and started to play out  in  bright colors, but because of the regular intake of the hated doxorubicin, Griffith's brain stubbornly forgets any, even the smallest passage before the words can be transferred to paper, even the voice recorder does not help.</p><p>In order to distract himself somehow from this swampy state, Jamie tries to read, interspersing religious literature, discarding one book after another <em>—</em> all this Christianity, Islam and Paganism is a complete nonsense, and only in Buddhism he could find some kind of consolation <em>—</em> with mystical stories and the blog of a retired London military doctor about adventures with a detective roommate; in general, it is written quite interestingly, albeit with mistakes, but so ... so <em>gay-way</em> that it looks more like not a diary but a collection of erotic fantasies: "abnormal, but charming", "bewitching madman", "delightful and refined", and "he was sitting in Buckingham Palace in his birthday suit, wrapped  in a sheet only" and seems like the introduction of the plot of average porn for fagots.</p><p>
  <strong>September 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>Turning on the first track list he comes across just to drown out the joyful laughter of his relatives in the yard preparing to celebrate his birthday, James grimly glares at the suit he was supposed to wear <em>—</em> his mother just the day before yesterday took in sewing his jacket and vest hanging on him like on a hanger, and the trousers, on the contrary, were slightly widened so that the fabric would fit the swollen leg <em>—</em> although Griffith with great pleasure, firstly, would remain in his home clothes, and secondly, would not celebrate anything at all and would not leave the room: the mood to take part in this farce is completely absent. For real, if now everyone is aware, in the case it will be possible to simply refer to poor health when all this finally gets bored, and calmly shut himself up, burying his face in the pillow and turning on some record <em>“Night rain on a car - 10 hours video with soothing sounds for relaxation and sleep</em>."</p><p>Recently, despite a slight decrease in the number of malignant cells in the blood <em>—</em> according to the doctor, and there is no reason not to believe him <em>—</em> James finds himself getting more and more difficult to move, and if a few months earlier, changing clothes was almost no problem, now it takes at least five to ten minutes, and it's scary to think that, perhaps, soon he will no longer be able to do it on his own.</p><p>Breathing out loudly, Griffith turns away from this patched-up textile monster, having a burning desire to send everything and everyone to a distant pedestrian, but remembers that he needs to update the bandage on his leg, so that just changing the out-washed T-shirt to a decent shirt will not get rid of.</p><p>James snorts in annoyance and, quickly pulling off his shirt, unties the lacing on his pants, from which the soft fleece fabric falls to the ankles from his thin legs freely, only for a second lingering on his swollen and gauze-wrapped thigh. Grabbing the wall, he awkwardly steps over, shaking himself out of his clothes, and looks skeptically at his reflection in the glossy surface of a cheap closet: his body, which was not particularly beautiful before, now even more does not cause anything but disgust: all these bones, unhealthy yellowness and pallor, general weakness and fragility make him simply <em>pathetical</em> and de facto cannot cause anything but disgust and fatigue even in a loved one.</p><p>Quickly, trying not to keep his eyes on the bandage, Jim unwinds the tissue adhered to the ulcerated surface, from which the unpleasant odor of poorly regenerating skin injured by radiation therapy hits his nose; hastily disinfected the burn-like ulcer and changed the bandage, he hobbles over to the closet to retrieve the change.</p><p>Firstly <em>—</em> a T-shirt and a shirt <em>—</em> there are no problems with them, unlike everything else: it is more difficult with jeans – for this he has to sit down, put legs in trousers and, holding them by the loops, gently, without disturbing the sore, pull on his hips; and the most difficult are socks, since stretching does not allow him to bend too much – despite dancing exercises, Griffith has been and remains a clumsy, angular blimp. Crossing himself, swearing and sighing like a swimmer before a jump, James bites his bottom lip and slyly dodges, saying to himself:</p><p><em>—</em> C'mon, you douchetard, you could do it yesterday <em>—</em> and you can today.</p><p>Before going down he shoves his feet into trampled boots, glances in the mirror, and cringes when he sees in the reflection something between Voldemort and an albino-otter.</p><p><em>—</em> What the hell are you looking at? <em>—</em> he mutters and goes out into the yard.</p><p>Jim sends his mother, who raised his eyebrows in surprise, his most innocent and charming smile, apologizing for what she thinks is inappropriate, and hobbies to open the gate <em>—</em> the horn of the totally crashed Bill's Defender already pleases the ears with the opening melody from the "Brazzers" films.</p><p>McKensie jumps out of the car with surprising gallantry to open door for Abigail, which Griffith does not ignore:</p><p><em>—</em> Davey, afaics Chewie has signed up as a doorkeeper?</p><p><em>—</em> Everyone thinks he's such a fucking gentleman, <em>—</em> Norton says after waiting for Ebs, Melissa and Bill to leave to greet the rest of the guests, <em>—</em> in fact, he just opens and closes the doors for her so that bitch doesn't bang 'em.</p><p><em>—</em> Oh, who's so cute here? <em>—</em> barely reaching the veranda, Abby and Melly begin to lisp with the birthday boy's nieces, <em>—</em> what class?</p><p><em>—</em> That's mammals, fuck off, <em>—</em> James snorts and groans at the imposing slap on the back of a loud, laughing Scotsman walking by.</p><p><em>—</em> Did you see it, Ebs? Jamie-boy is still Hugh Laurie, even better!</p><p><em>—</em> Why are you beating him, you hairy monk? <em>—</em> Norton immediately rears up, <em>—</em> what a degenerate will beat a man with a ca ...</p><p><em>—</em> Davey, calm down, everything is fine, let's go drink already, <em>—</em> Griffith conciliatory hugs his friends by the shoulders and leads them to the table bursting with plates of food and bottles of alcohol, noting to himself that the guys dramatically slow down the pace, adjusting to him speed.</p><p><em>—</em> A-ah! <em>—</em> the Scotsman explodes again from an overabundance of feelings, squeezes Jim in a bear hug and relishly kisses him on both cheeks, <em>—</em> damn, how can one not love this dude! You've called us for tea with cookies, and yourself offer us some booze! It is immediately evident <em>—</em> here it is, a house where people appreciate, love and wait for the guest!</p><p><em>—</em> Oh, the very beautiful girls in the whole Whales, glad to see you! <em>—</em> smiling with all false teeth, the father greets the brides of his friends, <em>—</em> what will the lovely ladies drink?</p><p><em>—</em> Lol, our Jimmy still has the <em>most</em> beautiful girls, am I right, Chloe? <em>—</em> piling the stew into a plate, Davey nods his head towards the children's table, from which the girl giggles at a salad of vegetables from their garden <em>—</em> just a couple of days ago, the daughters threw a pretty tantrum when they found out that they could not marry Uncle James, and God knows it was such a funny sight that sister told about it to one and all who wanted to listen to her.</p><p><em>—</em> By the way, Chloe, Maddie is already attending kindergarten if I'm not mistaken? — Abigail asks interestedly, putting her elbows on the table and shaking her glass of cider.</p><p><em>—</em> Yeah, <em>—</em> Chloe willingly replies, casting a glance at the children playing hide and seek among the apple trees, <em>—</em> quite successfully demobilized from the nursery, so in the younger group already.</p><p><em>—</em> And how was the first day?</p><p>Bill throws a slightly nervous glance in the direction of his beloved, who continues to bombard Chloe with questions about all the children's bullshit that he didn't particularly like <em>—</em> no, he, of course, loved kids, but older ones, with whom one can play radio-controlled tanks and drive rugby. Unlike the bride, he did not plan to have children <em>—</em> at least until he found a normal place of work, and not stupid errand with "Cash in the Attic", in which he could not realize himself: his passionate desire from the university was to shoot a documentary about endangered tree frogs in the rain forests of the Amazon, as he repeatedly spoke to friends about.</p><p><em>—</em> Well ... Maddie is a fan of chaos and destruction, <em>—</em> Mike responses for his wife, <em>—</em> so the teacher's calls for order and discipline enrage her. So saying, forces her into the Valkyrie mode.</p><p><em>—</em> But what an marvellous RPG you can stir up with it! <em>—</em> Bill grins, generously splashing cider for himself and Edwards, <em>—</em> stealth with a trowel in close combat, although the damage is almost zero, or use the ball as a long-range weapon, the distance depends on the level of agility, strength and damage <em>—</em> too ...</p><p>Griffith snorts at his plate, glancing sideways at Abigail <em>—</em> he does not remember when he last saw her, but, apparently, she retained the same forms that she could boast about six or seven years ago, when Davey ordered her to celebrate his coming of age, and each of their drunken and stoned company in turn fucked this slut in all the holes; well, Ebs is at slightly crooked in her face, quite like that, but clearly loses to Melissa, whose body, frankly, attracted James much more than the same Angelina Castro.</p><p>The phone in his pocket vibrates, punching the hour of taking medication, and James, apologizing, leaves the feast, with his back feeling the glances glaring at him <em>—</em> probably pitying, fuck them all <em>—</em> the guests present, and once again curses the mother who insisted on the party.</p><p>Throwing a handful of the necessary pills into his mouth at once, Griffith drinks them with tap water and out of the corner of his eye sees the tablet screen flashing: of course he vaguely guessed that Sherlock knew his date of birth, but still <em>—</em> receiving news and additional confirmation of existence detective warms his heart nicely, even if he only wrote "happy birthday" and attached a link to Laura's Facebook account in the message <em>—</em> but damn it, this is the best gift James gets this day: all these blenders, boring manuals for writing idiotic clothes and other crap he doesn't need, and in a couple of days he will just trade all this shit on e-bay, as usual.</p><p>When Jim returns to the celebrants, he is instantly seated at the head of the table, and Bill gets up to make a toast, and the birthday boy feels his lips spread by themselves into a smile: most of McKensie's joke sayings, if they do not bring him to the point of loss of consciousness from laughter, then at least happen deserve to be pilfered into golden quotes.</p><p><em>—</em> Today I will be brief ...</p><p><em>—</em> Jesus fucking Christ, it's probably snowing in hell! <em>—</em> Norton snorts harmlessly into a glass of cider and immediately gets a savory slap on the head from the shaggy Scotsman.</p><p><em>—</em> Well, Jimbo, personally I sincerely wish you only one thing: do not give up and successfully cope with all the shit that is happening in your life now, as you did before. And in general, I wish you to grow old successfully until the age when your memory begins to cheat on you with sclerosis, the sound [a]  will completely disappear from your speech and in transport, on the way to the clinic, you will calmly break the wi...</p><p><em>—</em> Bill!</p><p><em>—</em> My bad, Ebs, it's uh bust! Okay ... Okay. And I also want to congratulate everyone present on the fact that on this very day, at this very hour, exactly twenty-eight years ago, it was James Kimberly Griffith who was born, and not some pussy-eyed mutherfu...</p><p><em>— BILL! —</em> this time the mother interjects and stops when she sees the laughing son; James himself doesn't remember the last time he laughed like that.</p><p>After the Chinese lanterns launched into the sky with good wishes and a birthday cake (this time, thank God, there were twenty-eight candles and they all blew out easily), to which Griffith did not dare to touch and only sluggishly picked it up with a spoon polished to a shine – after all, sweet and flour promotes the growth of malignant cells – all relatives, except for Chloe with her husband and girls, go home, and James, with a sigh of relief, crawls out into the empty yard with a bottle of cider: the sky is now clear and starry, and you can sit in the peace and quiet of a warm night sipping moonshine and staring at the blackness alluring to him.</p><p><em>—</em> Jee wizz! Did they go crazy to the edge or what? There, half is kept on you, and half on scotch tape! – Bill's voice is heard from the porch, <em>—</em> is vacation pay at least normal?</p><p><em>—</em> Well ... something like that, <em>—</em> Norton pulls uncertainly and clicks a lighter, <em>—</em> plus Mells and I don't have troubles with money yet, she still works, and we have some savings for our wed ... <em>—</em> seeing that they are not alone in the yard, Davey breaks off mid-sentence and silently drag on.</p><p><em>—</em> Hell no, just look! Mutton, I thought you were already happily chasing your dick under a blanket, as a good  boy! – the Scotsman sits down to the right of Griffith and leans back in his chair, <em>—</em> well, how's it going?</p><p><em>—</em> Fine, <em>— </em>answers James, without taking his eyes off the Perseids, takes an impressive sip right from the bottleneck, <em>—</em> trying to be alive.</p><p>Even in the darkness  he sees an awkward expression on McKensie's eternally cheerful face, but he can't and doesn't want to —  to be honest — come up with anything sensible to change the subject;  he can, of course, start asking Davey about his job cut, but Griffith is fine realizes that the conversation will rot very quickly: despite his completely scummy colleagues, Norton loved his work very much.</p><p><em>—</em> Listen, well, my friend's mother also has cancer, but she's quite so cheerful. The main thing is that it does not flood into the liver, well, it is only on the fourth and rushes, and then if you let it go, and you don't! Yes, with the lungs you can somehow sort it out, but the liver ... <em>—</em> Bill bites his tongue, feeling the heavy gaze of his friend and, taking a drag, also looks at the black dome of space, <em>—</em> oh, what a romance! Go out at night with a cunt-holder, lay down next to her and look at these fucking stars until she is happy enough to finally have sex.</p><p><em>—</em> Are you interested in anything besides sex, you furry bumblebee? <em>—</em> David snorts irritably, showing with all his appearance that James' illness is an undesirable topic, <em>—</em> it's  Jim's birthday, why are you on his ass 'bout this bullocks?</p><p><em>—</em> Fuck off, Sherpa Davey.</p><p><em>—</em> Actually, I'm still here, if you haven't noticed, <em>—</em> Griffith wedges into the nascent squabble and, loudly putting down an almost empty bottle, gets up, barely covering Norton, who jumped up to help him, with strong words, <em>—</em> I'm not disabled, hey! I'll get up myself, fuck off.</p><p>He slowly limps into the house, drooping his head and hiding his hands in his pockets: he shouldn't have been so rude to the best – <em>don't think  about Milo </em>– friends, but there is not the slightest desire to apologize, especially now, when the effect of the pills ends and the pain in his leg slowly raises its fanged muzzle.</p><p>
  <strong>September 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>In the last days of September, Griffith, leaning back on a reading pillow and covering his head with a blanket so that the light does not glare on the screen, mindlessly reads random (and full of punctuation errors) blog posts by John H. Watson – weirdo which confused him with a detective in early July in Barts until he clings to his name:</p><p>
  <em>Jim Moriarty was the total opposite to Sherlock but they were also so very alike. He was a consulting criminal. People came to him and he arranged whatever they wanted. And while they talked, I stood there wearing enough explosives to kill all of us. I was the only one who seemed even aware of this.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Suddenly, I grabbed Moriarty. I knew that his assistant (his own John Watson?) wouldn't kill him. But the laser sight simply moved to Sherlock's head and I was forced to let go. For a second, I wondered if Sherlock would have done the same for me but then all I knew for certain was, at that moment, I knew I was going to die.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Except I didn't because Moriarty changed his mind. He said that he'd kill Sherlock one day but that, for now, he was letting us go. It really was just a game to him. He left and Sherlock ripped the explosives off of me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We were getting our breath back when suddenly so many laser sights appeared. Moriarty returned and said he had changed his mind again!! We were going to die, after all. Sherlock simply pointed his gun at the discarded explosives. If we were going to die, so was Moriarty. Which is when Moriarty's phone rang. He took the call and called off his gunman. He was letting us live. And, as I finally breathed out, he left.</em>
</p><p>At first, James takes it as a joke – especially since the post is dated April 1 – but after flipping the diary a few pages forward, he stumbles over a photograph of this Moriaty: Richard Brooke, that eerie storyteller who read legends about hypocrites, is looking at him from the tablet screen. and the bouncers in that children's show.</p><p><em>—</em> What the ... <em>—</em> Griffith mutters in confusion and, listening to the silence of the empty house – the parents have left somewhere again, <em>—</em> pulls off the blanket, takes a box with Sherlock's weed <em>—</em> there is no doubt that it was <em>he</em> who gave Jim the goofball for Halloween, no longer: he managed to compare the burnt piece of paper with the numbers 46809, Holmes's mobile phone + 44–7544–680–989, helpfully provided at www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk. along with the screenshots that captured the detective's handwriting – and, twisting the joint, he puffs, slowly and thoughtlessly plunging into himself.</p><p><em>— Share, c'mon</em>, — says Sherlock, who came from nowhere, lounging frivolously on the chair next to James’s bed, — <em>and in general... You supposed to be smoking?</em></p><p>— Is anybody "supposed" to smoke? — Griffith grinning hoarsely, placing the half-empty box and roll-up paper on the bedside table and inviting the detective to join in with a hospitable gesture, — you always show up just when no one is home. This is not deduction, but some kind of telepathy, — James snorts, not a bit surprised at the unexpected appearance of the detective in his room, even though he was not quite able to connect the dots and determine how much Holmes is an illusion, and how much a real person. All Griffith now realizes is that here he is, Sherlock, right in front of him. Lord Jesus, reach out your hand – and you will touch him, quite close ... but still unattainable, as if it hovered somewhere between the second and third star – as soon as you guess at all?</p><p><em>— No. I never guess. It s a shocking habit — destructive to the logical faculty,</em> <em>—</em> leaning back in his chair, Holmes folds his palms in a common prayer gesture and touches his face slightly with his fingertips, <em>—</em> <em>it is enough to use half a percent of the brain and see schedules for nearby parent support groups with children with cancer in order to understand when your Mommy and Daddy are leaving.</em></p><p>"Oh, that's it!" <em>—</em> a million questions swarm in James's head, words and guesses bump into each other and fall, creating a bunch of little bits of thoughts, so Sherlock is somehow ... not himself.</p><p>Yes, Holmes is still dressed in an unchanging coat and a chic suit that fits perfectly on a toned body, and the hair, so far hidden under the hat of a dragon-deer hunter, is probably still styled into a magnificent hairstyle <em>—</em> not a consulting detective, but model from the cover of "Attitude", for fuck's sake <em>— </em> but his  the expression itself ... Now he is more like not a genius private detective, but a drug addict who robbed a London dandy after escaping from a rehabilitation clinic: his eyes tremble, every muscle is tense, which makes it seem as if his face was a consonant alphabet — hard, angular and nervous.</p><p><em>—</em> Sherlock, how do you do it?</p><p><em>—Huh</em>? <em>—</em> Holmes, who has lost the thread of the narrative, stiffens, biting his thumb, <em>—</em> <em>what am I doing</em>?</p><p><em>—</em> Well ... how did you tell me about Dioscuri and Pollux or bee-keeping, and so on...</p><p>The detective noticeably relaxes and leans back in his chair, carefully studying his twin, from which something flashes in his head that James does not have time to catch, but from this "something" the scrotum tightens and becomes heavy, and a pleasant tension arises in the penis. This kind of reaction makes Sherlock smile with a mild, slightly self-satisfied smile, and he chuckles sarcastically.</p><p><em>— </em> <em>Well, it seems that my theory is correct.</em></p><p><em>— </em>Uhm ... what theory?  <em>—</em> even being a little high, Jim feels his ears start to glow with embarrassment and, avoiding direct eye contact, takes a sip of water.</p><p><em>—</em>Anyone, <em>—</em> Sherlock snorts, looking at him like an idiot.</p><p>From such impudence, Griffith is speechless and sits like a fool with his mouth open and staring at Holmes.</p><p>
  <em>— I can directly hear how your convolutions are twisted into a spiral from ...</em>
</p><p><em>—</em> Sherlock, why do you need all of this? Jim interrupts, fiddling with blankets to make himself comfortable on the knocked-down bed.</p><p><em>—</em><em>  Be more specific,</em><em> —</em> Sherlock chuckles, <em>— </em><em>I have 'all of this' as unsolved cases at Scotland Yard.</em></p><p><em>—</em> Why did you come?</p><p>— To see you, Jamie,<em> —</em> the detective twitches an eyebrow.</p><p><em>—</em> Call me Jim, okay? Only my grandmother calles me "Jamie", and even then when I was quite small.</p><p><em>— Nope, I won't call you "Jim", Jamie,</em> <em>—</em> gloomed Holmes even shakes his head for persuasiveness, – <em>I already have one Jim ... More precisely, I was.</em></p><p><em>—</em> And if not to tell balls? <em>—</em> James can't help but smile as he watches Sherlock's face stretch out, making him look like a horse, <em>—</em> don't change the subject. What do you need?</p><p><em>— Okay, —</em> Holmes moves forward, glaring at the double with crazy eyes, <em>—</em><em> I want you to write. About me.</em></p><p><em>—</em> You already have a blogger, this John, <em>—</em> having wet his finger, Griffith collects crumbs from the hashish from the counter-top, <em>—</em> why am I going to plagiarize?</p><p><em>— You had plagiarized before </em><em>— and nothing, you </em><em>didn't die of shame,</em> <em>—</em> the detective winks, clearly hinting at the ending stolen from Miles, – <em>and I need you to write not about my greatest achievements — John has expressed them in every possible variant available in English — but about my ... My greatest defeat.</em></p><p>James freezes, without reaching his mouth with the cigarette: what was that now? Why the hell does a pompous, narcissistic sociopath need moral masochism?</p><p><em>—</em> And how do you think I should do it?</p><p><em>—How do I know</em>? <em>—</em> the detective grumbles with displeasure, <em>—</em> <em>you're the one who is a writer here, not me.</em></p><p><em>—</em> Do you think this is done by magic? <em>—</em> with difficulty keeping the thoughts spreading like frightened spiders, he tries hard to remember excerpts from the manual "how to write books", asks Jim, to which Sherlock shrugs his shoulders and rolls his eyes, <em>—</em> well, in general <em>—</em> yes. There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed, as Hemingway said.</p><p>
  <em>— I have not heard of this charactrer.</em>
</p><p><em>—</em> But it's the school curricula, Sherlock!</p><p>
  <em>— Oh, hell! What does matter who wrote what! It's like arguing about the solar system. So we go round the sun or round the moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear it wouldn't make any difference!</em>
</p><p><em>—</em> Well, let's start from the very beginning, then, perhaps ... When were you born? <em>—</em> he immediately bites his tongue, realizing the idiocy of the question.</p><p><em>— January sixth, eighty-one, but the biography does not start from birth, </em>– Sherlock grins wryly and lights a regular cigarette, lazily swinging his leg in time with the ticking of the clock.</p><p><em>— </em>Not only is it in the year of the cock, but also doggy, <em>—</em> James can not resist, and both are simultaneously sprinkling with laughter, <em>—</em> it is strange that we are twins not by horoscope, but only by appearance. Well, you know ... like there are two types of twins: one has more Calves, the other has more Cancer.</p><p><em>— Oh, you're so vacant, is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing... How can ninety-nine percent of the world's population be so dumb to think that it is possible to divide the character of seven billion people into twelve parts, due to how the stars in the sky were formed?</em> <em>—</em> having laughed off, feigned grumble Holmes, trying his best to give his face a serious expression <em>—</em> though unsuccessfully.</p><p><em>—</em> Typical Capricorn, <em>—</em> correcting himself, Griffith shrugs his shoulders, inhales and, crunching the knuckles of his fingers, prepares to listen carefully <em>—</em> and, if necessary, write down everything that Sherlock considers necessary to tell, even if his request is very strange and somewhat resembles a story about The Little Prince, who needs a lamb, take it out and put it down, <em>—</em> um ... read me  a lecture, what exactly should I write about? To hell with what for, but still?</p><p>Sherlock draws more oxygen into his chest and speaks chaotically and clearly not rehearsed, completely forgetting all the words and getting confused in them, like a shy student in the lesson:</p><p><em>— I want to remember him — no, —</em> the unusually agitated Holmes scares with crazy sparks in his eyes, as if he is possessed by Satan himself, <em>—</em> I <em>remember every word, look, smell, movement ... But I practically do not remember myself with him. No images, no feelings.</em></p><p>— I thought you were a perception agnostic with an eidetic memory, — James chuckles, trying to be as friendly as possible, even though he feels an unreasonable prick of jealousy.</p><p>Sherlock glares at him, as if Griffith's words hurt him, and for a while he is silent, collecting his thoughts.</p><p><em>— I forced myself to forget about us, and Mycroft completely locked all the memories of ... </em>us<em> in the mortsafe — and I saw Jim through these bars in the window, but I could neither break them, nor shout until he hears me, and began to look for the door,</em> — carefully selecting each token, Holmes mutters, and there is not a trace of the arrogant, self-confident genius of a private detective in him, <em>—</em> <em>I have been looking for it for long two years, but thirty minutes was enough for </em>you. <em>So I came to the conclusion that perhaps you have something like a key of your, and in the world of locked locks, the man with the key is king. So go ahead, wander through my Mind Palace as much as you like. Help me.</em></p><p>—  Don't you think this is kind of... immoral? You never know what hornet's nest I will spread there? – Jim finds this idea more than attractive, but at the same time he fears that he might inadvertently offend the offensive detective and lose him completely and irrevocably.</p><p><em>— </em><em>Morality shouldn't keep you from doing the right things,</em> —  Sherlock snorts, pulling on his coat and tying a scarf, —  <em>I do recognize only two limitations: ethics and the law, but these are very flexible concepts and have absolutely nothing to do with our business. You see? I'm burning up. I'm still falling, and I'm never climbing up. Not </em><em>now. </em><em>Not alone.</em></p><p>
  <strong>October 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>... He stands, shifting his weight on his good leg and, like Moses, commanding the sated, gasping waves to open up before him (or to drown him completely?) — stretches out his hand hidden in a black glove to the huge and cold autumn sea that washes the dark viscous sand dotted with chaotic, half-scattered by the wind traces, as if someone hysterically rushed along the shore <em>to find something </em> a few hours ago.</p><p>As his eyes get used to the dark, James can finally see how Bill, Miles and Davey, shoulders touching, drag something heavy from the shallow water to the beach. The salty air quivers with their unintelligible whispers, in which he vaguely recognizes his name, but it does not fit with the rest of the words that frame "James" in the wrong, inappropriate frame. Norton throws a gray blanket over the shoulders of his friends and, whining bitterly, begins to back away on stiff legs, gradually picking up speed until he jogs and rushes headlong towards the northern path leading from Barafundle Bay to the Pembrokeshire Coast Pat, while the remaining on the beach, McKensie and Clavell are fumbling over something that Griffith cannot see. Finally, Norton returns to them and, looking at his watch, falls exhaustedly beside them, and all three turn their faces to the sky and yell, yell heart-rendingly, desperately and hopelessly, going into a scream ...</p><p>... from which a merciless wet cough tears his chest, forcing Griffith to wake up in the middle of the night. The attack lasts too long for a common cold, and the sputum with an iron taste is very viscous – so much so that you can grab the clot with your fingers, feeling it like something like a jellyfish – for some reason, James is sure that this is the hydroid <em>turritopsis nutricula</em>, although I have never encountered these creatures. Turning on the light, he looks at the edge of the sheet, into which he coughed up – and the world turns upside down: the snow-white fabric is covered with reddish-yellow spots, similar to blood mixed with pus.</p><p>Yes, that's not what Jim expected after Sherlock's request — he thought he was a detective as before — and how did he ever manage to do it? – will send some necessary thoughts or images into his dream ... apparently, something went wrong, and Holmes could not get through his subconscious.</p><p>Trying to distract himself before the clock strikes at least seven in the morning, and it will be possible to call Davey, who recently often visited with them at Stackpole and dragged him to radiation and chemotherapy, either to Haverfordwest, then to Pembroke, then to Cardiff, then to London, and ask to be taken to the clinic, Griffith scrolls through Laura's account, so generously thrown off by Sherlock and, having stumbled upon old photographs of the girl that partially won his heart — to be honest with himself, he would have enjoyed playing a little vaudeville with her with great pleasure — recognizes Miles's ex-girlfriend in the meek angel from the window opposite: he can remember that he once even took her on a hike to the bay in the year ninety-eight or ninety-nine. Now she, apparently, is quite well settled in her life: in the latest photographs, Laura was always next to Mycroft — Sherlock's older brother, whom Griffith saw in Kensington Garden this winter.</p><p>Disappointed — and why is it that all the girls he likes turn out to be whores? – James even sits down at the computer, stretching out his sore leg with a soft hiss to delete the story about Laura (now she is not a patient there, but a very healthy and good-natured nurse in the oncology department), and is stunned to discover that all the sketches about Sherlock, which he deleted not so long ago, reappeared on the hard drive, but the surprise quickly passes when a ticking-itching pain in his thigh is joined by a new attack of coughing, even stronger than the one that woke him up.</p><p>
  <strong>October 2009, Pembrokeshire, B4319.</strong>
</p><p>He is devastated. Completely devastated — no, James, of course, assumed that this was how it all ended, and Sherlock once went over the ears about "a year and a half", but ... but <em>fuck!</em> Who would have thought that metastases, and not anyhow, but infiltrated and multiple, can germinate in the lungs in some one and a half to two months? He smokes nothing at all – well, three, well, four cigarettes a day, and now... <em>now...</em></p><p>Leaning in the back seat, Griffith turns on the player and leans his forehead against the cool glass of the car – despite the multi-lane road and the wide-spread city on either side of it, the bright blue sky wrapped in snow-white clouds seems hysterically huge — and feeling his heartbeat gradually calm down, and a sad melody is layered on the effect of an injection with a sedative, which was done to him immediately after the doctor, with three ruthless words and a prescription for palliative drugs — <em>"I'm sorry, but we will put you on morphine"</em> — crossed out his life, finally dividing it into "before" and "after" ...</p><p>Davey's old Ford jumps on another pothole, from which James hit his temple on the window frame, opens his eyes and immediately squints at the bright light that hits his eyes, making the world around him play with dazzling white paints, burning out bizarre spots on the other side of the retina. Having ignored the apology of his friend, Griffith gloomily and thoughtlessly looks at the landscape sweeping in front of him until he stumbles upon abandoned railway tracks, hidden from the observer by withered grass, wet from the chilly October rain.</p><p>October? But after  all, there was Christmas also quite recently and Easter having fallen to hell knows what, his parents' anniversary and Clem's birthday... Good Lord, how <em>unfairly fast</em> the time runs...</p><p>Jim tries to shake off the haze of self-pity  to himself – shit, it could not be worse than this unlucky matter — and eyes at the side mirror of the car, which makes him feel very bad: immediately above the inscription "reflected objects are closer than they seem", a car with advertising is driving behind them ritual office of Bosherston.</p><p>Griffith turns away from the hearse in horror and, turning his face towards the fields, sees in the distance a very strange scarecrow lost among the neat haystacks. Jim is seasick from the Welsh landscape passing by, and, feeling the characteristic wet-sour taste of vomit, he asks Davey to stop the car.</p><p>Unfortunately, James can't really vomit: he practically did not eat anything for a couple of days, and all that he manages to vomit out of himself is just a little bit of bile, so he has to ask Norton to bring a bottle of water in order to somehow wash out his stomach and wash off the raw burning sensation in the esophagus and pharynx. While he is vomiting, Davey turns away so as not to embarrass his friend and lights a cigarette, from which the autumn air is diluted with a sugary odor of perfume – apparently, these are Mells 'ladies' cigarettes, since Norton cannot stand flavored "cat tampax" and smokes them only in an extreme case.</p><p>Looking around, Griffith notices a coat flashing behind a hay cylinder and, without hesitation, runs after him, trying not to pay attention to the decreased amplitude of his leg mobility and pain that flashes up in blinding flashes from time to time. Feeling like a Little Mermaid taking her first steps on hard ground, he grits his teeth and hurries after Sherlock — who else could it be if not him? — gradually accelerating: damn it, he is still capable of something faster than the lame and crooked gait of a body crippled by the disease, even to the same pace as walking to America.</p><p>— Jim! — the shrill and hysterically thin voice of Davey cuts in the ears, and it only gets worse from the surging memories of today's dream and the understanding that he rushed after, — Jim, wai... where are you going?</p><p>But Griffith now absolutely does not care if Norton is rushing after him: his only goal is to catch up with Holmes, grab him by the breasts and shake him properly, just to feel the fabric in his hands and make sure that the detective is not a figment of his drugged imagination.</p><p>— Jim, you motherfucker! — shouts the rapidly approaching Norton — still, a hefty moose with beefy, strong legs, untouched by the disease, — well, what are you doing, idiot?</p><p>
  <em>If you are chasing a ghost, then run not after it but to the place from where he is running ...</em>
</p><p>Another minute — and just changing direction, James falls on Davey, who pulled him back and rolls over to a prickly dry injury.</p><p>— Hush now, Jamie,  — gasping, Norton wheezes, hugging Griffith to him, — there's nowhere to go, Jim, you can not run away from yourself ...</p><p>It seems to be a stupid, banal phrase, but Griffith is covered with unimaginable despair – and, clutching his friend's leather jacket with his hands, he hides his face on his chest and begins to sob, filled with self-pity: he does not  want to die, but diagnosed with the fourth stage of cancer — that's it. It is like a death sentence, and now in his life there is only one question: when and where he will die ... and latently Griffith realizes that he knows the answer.</p><p>The rest of the way to the house James is silent, gloomily hiding from Davey, who now and then throws an uneasy look in his direction. Already at the entrance to their street, Griffith begins to vomit again, and he, without even having time to warn his friend, spatters the back seat with a whitish gruel of undigested white crackers, which Norton forced him to eat: they say, water with crackers  is the best thing after vomiting, if there's no low-fat broth at hand.</p><p>Ashamed, ashamed, ashamed ... Incredibly, to complete disgust for himself, so strong that James would probably vomit again if his stomach was as empty as Sahara desert. It becomes even more disgusting on the soul that Griffith does not turn his tongue to send Davey to hell with mothers, like a month ago, and he has to allow a friend to lead him to the bathroom, sit him on the lowered toilet lid, undress and wash.</p><p>— Um… Davey? — while Norton shoves the dirty things into the washing machine, Jim has time to pull on a clean T-shirt and rinse his mouth.</p><p>— What? — he turns abruptly, leaving the powder tray open — apparently, the experience of interacting with a sick grandmother has developed in him a certain reflex on the first sneeze to drop everything and rush to help — and takes a couple of steps towards Griffith, not hiding his concern.</p><p>— Don't tell the others, okay? I'll  do it myself.</p><p>— When? — unsuccessfully hiding anxiety behind sarcasm, asks a friend, — not like the last time, a year after the diagnosis?</p><p>— Tomorrow.</p><p>— You seem to be hoping that tomorrow you will die, and fuck it all somehow then, — friend sneers, pouring a cleaning agent.</p><p>— Damn it, just erase that fucking grin from your face, I'm begging you. Tomorrow means tomorrow.</p><p>Norton, reluctantly nodding, turns on the typewriter and hesitates for a while, as if embarrassed by his own thoughts.</p><p>— What? — Jim throws irritably and, grabbing the side of the bathroom, gets to his feet, — if you want to quote the Queen of Hearts about jam, then you better keep quiet.</p><p>— No, I’m ... Well, may  help you with something, maybe? — looking from under a long bangs, asks Davey, — well ... I mean, if I can help you with something, if you suddenly need something, anything — then contact me. I got fired anyway, so...</p><p>— I've got the point, thanks, — Griffith nods instead of “<em>you can suck my dick, Sherpa Davey</em>,” and taking a bucket and a rag, he walks out into the street to wash the interior of the car of his sluggishly denying friend: it’s okay to wash it, hell with him, but to clean up after him … Not. It's not over yet.</p><p>
  <strong>October 2009, Pembrokeshire, Saint Twinnels.</strong>
</p><p>This year it was decided to celebrate Halloween at Bill's place — firstly, he had not received guests for a long time, and secondly, James was very enthusiastic about the opportunity to spend at least a day away from the vigilant — and rather annoying, if not to put it more strongly — attention parents, to whom he never dared to tell how bad his affairs were.</p><p>The McKensie abode, renewed with a girl, sadly surprises Griffith with the absence of the Scotsman's joking insanity like a can of whipped cream instead of a toilet air freshener, a dildo with a silicone suction cup instead of a toilet paper holder, an artificial vagina used as a hook for kitchen towels, or an artificial vagina used as a hook for kitchen towels. with an ornate inscription "Fucking Smelly Cove" over a clogged sink, in which they even floated — oh, how clearly Jim remembers that — small boats made of beer corks and used tea bags.</p><p>Instead there is a banal boring thing with flowered curtains, framed selfies hanging on the walls, and stuffed animals scattered here and there in Bill and Abby's almost family nest. The only thing that the girl did not dare to touch is McKensie's office, which has become today's haven for a male company — that is, Bill, James, Davie (Miles predictably did not deign to honor his friends with his august presence) and four other guys vaguely familiar to Griffith, while the girls hang out in the living room, pouring themselves into some kind of woman's booze a la apple beer to Twilight.</p><p>Due to the absence of ladies, the game of draw poker flavored with alcohol and greasy jokes goes easily and naturally, and at the table every now and then there is loud, like the roar of fireworks, laughter, from which it is even easier to bluff – it is one thing to imitate a confident hand in a bad situation (today Griffith has absolutely no luck with the cards) and try to keep a lean face, and another – to do the same, but in the company of laughing rivals.</p><p>— Jimbo, beer or whiskey?</p><p>—  I will surprise my liver with cranberry juice, — Jamie grumbles, trying to concentrate on the combination, — there is no mood to fret.</p><p>— Fuck, can you?</p><p>— Huh?</p><p>— Well, it's non-alcoholic! Do you even get it?</p><p>Between the third and fourth rounds, the Scot, quickly over–raising the bet, climbs into the mini–bar and pulls out a bottle of good–quality ale, giggling smugly.</p><p>— Bill, why are you lowering the degree? What the fuck is ale after whiskey? — one of the guys raises his eyebrows in surprise — it seems either a fellow student of McKensie, or a fellow climber.</p><p>—  Not after whiskey, but before cognac, do your research! — Bill, drunkenly swaying, generously pours the drink into the guests' glasses, not paying attention to the fact that he splashes more on the table.</p><p>— Chewie, you're hittin' it kinda hard, — Davey chuckles, in every way protecting the cards from amber drops, — otherwise it will be like last time.</p><p>— I hadn't drank so much! — snorting, Bill sits down and wipes the plastic rectangles on the blue T–shirt.</p><p>— You hit on Abby, asked if she needed a boyfriend, and then squeezed the phone from some curly-haired fagot and called yourself, threatening to kick the shit out, — assented another guest — either Finon, or Simon.</p><p>Griffith, who has taken a sip of ale at that moment, burst out of laughing into a glass and coughs when the drink enters the wrong throat and nasopharynx, and, fearing to expose his ailment in front of four unfamiliar guys, allows the grumbling "do not pay attention, he just choked" Davey take himself to restroom.</p><p>Leaning against the wall, Jim with an eloquent gaze asks Norton to turn away and, turning on the water to drown the spasms shaking the body, bends over the roughly washed sink — Abby was too lazy to be thoroughly clean, and Bill ... three words on a paper flag glued to the faucet speak for themselves — and coughs up clots of sputum mixed with ale and blood. When the cough begins to subside, he slightly squints his eyes at the hushed Davey — as it turns out, he is carefully studying the book, covered with colorful bookmarks that Chewie likes so much, with two people hiding under an umbrella on the cover. In hospitals, Griffith often saw this in the hands of visitors waiting for their relatives and friends — "Cancer: how friends can help" by C.D. Fullbright, and his heart sanks gratefully: God bless friends like Bill.</p><p>—… I did an Irish goodbye then, — the Scotsman retorts, swinging in his chair, when Jim and Norton return to the office and sit down at the table.</p><p>—  You urinated in a pot of aspidistra, vomited on guest and wished everyone to shave your furry ass! – grins Finon — or Simon, what's the difference — and Bill, twisting an aristocratic face and sticking out his little finger, drains his glass in one gulp and proudly says:</p><p>— You do not understand the habits of a true gentleman, you fucking plebeian. So shut up and deal your cards.</p><p>Either the stars have formed like this, or in love they will soon be lucky, but when the stakes rise significantly and the time for showdown comes, Griffith has really shitty cards in his hands — while the rest of the players have completely flushes, four of a kind and full houses, Jim boasts only a jack of hearts and two pairs — eights of tambourines and clubs and sevens of clubs and spades, and as a result amid general laughter he loses his brand-new boots.</p><p>
  <strong>November 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>Once again, having quarreled with his parents — not even really remembering why; it seems that they either wanted to buy an orthopedic bed, or take him to a support group, or fuck their old dog Nana — James spits on everything and, having hardly tied his laces, the egglets slipped out of the eyelets when he last time he took off his shoes — he rushes out of the house, chilly wrapping himself in a down jacket and hiding the swollen lymph nodes under a warm scarf.</p><p>Overcome by indiscriminate and gloomy thoughts, he slowly — Lord, so slowly — right across the field, sprinkled with mud left after the first melted snow, weaves towards the school, where this year they will burn a scarecrow.</p><p>— Mr. Griffith! Penny for Guy! — barely seeing him, the children, dragging branches and wooden pallets to the future fire, stick around James, huddling around in anticipation of coins.</p><p>— Aren't you supposed to steal radio tape recorders from cars on Jacks's Corner now and exchange them for firecrackers or something?</p><p>Letting in the cold, almost wintry air and clearing his throat, Jim leans back against a tree — he didn't want to sit on a cold bench, and balancing on a good leg without any support was quite difficult — and watches the children run out of the yard to old Johnson to have time to buy the last fireworks before it gets completely dark and Venus lights up in the sky, thereby announcing the beginning of the Night of Bonfires.</p><p>From the deafening roar and bright flashes of firecrackers illuminating the strange, even eerie masks of the townspeople dancing to loud music, Griffith begins to ripple in his eyes, and his frozen face unpleasantly splashes the heat of the fire, and James, hunched over his shoulders, waddles home the same way he came illuminating your path with a flashlight built into your mobile phone.</p><p><em>— Why did you leave</em>? — Sherlock's voice is suddenly heard behind his back, —<em> I thought you liked this stupidity.</em></p><p>—  Why "stupidity"? — Jim takes offense, stopping to rest — from a long time spent on his feet his thigh begins to whine and itch mercilessly, giving itself back to the body with burning lightning at every step.</p><p>— <em>The attitude to fireworks determines the degree of childish enthusiasm left in a person</em>, — Holmes snorts and, stopping a couple of steps from his doppelganger, lights up a strong “lucky strike”, the smoke of which makes Griffith a suffocating cough.</p><p>— You know, – having coped with the attack, James throws the hood over his cap and limps forward, — you'd better tell me something about your Moriarty than clapperclawing me. He ... he died, right?</p><p><em>— For me he will never die, although he shot himself in front of my eyes</em>, — the drooping detective throws his cigarette butt on the ground and, in two steps, having caught up with the interlocutor, adjusts to his twitchy and slow pace, — <em>don't</em>, — Holmes interrupts the assembled to express his usual condolences to James , and they silently wander forward, not stopping even when the battery on Griffith's cell runs out and the flashlight goes out.</p><p>— And how did you get through it? — unable to endure the silence, ringing with a distant echo from the last salute in the false, dim light of the lanterns of the deserted alley leading to the post office, says James.</p><p><em>— Who said that I went through? God, I thought you were smarter than John</em>, — Holmes rolls his eyes and nervously fiddles with the fringe of a dark blue scarf.</p><p>— Oh, I'm sorry, Sherlock.</p><p>—<em>It's okay, </em>— he casually waves Jim away and, sitting down on the bench, lights a cigarette again.</p><p>— You… uh… do wanna talk about it? — Griffith, awkwardly leaning on the back, slides down to join Sherlock — it hurts too much to stand, and he didn't even take the analgin with him.</p><p><em>— I definitely don't want to waste words,</em> — Sherlock takes a small box out of his pocket, — <em>a picture is worth thousand words.</em></p><p>—  What the hell is this? — Jim even recoils from the detective: yes, he gave him good weed, but he did not want to accept something created in artisanal conditions in some clandestine laboratory — and so the prospect of taking morphine loomed ahead, which would probably make him the only one addict all over Stackpole, albeit for medical reasons.</p><p><em>— Oh heavens, oh Gods! Another John on my head!</em> — raising his eyes to grief, Sherlock exclaims theatrically, — <em>why am I surrounded by idiots who have difficulties with trust ?! I thought you trust me ... It certainly won't get any worse, Jamie</em>, — he freezes for a moment, like a computer frozen due to a virus, and mumbles something vague about the experiments and John is shying away from sugar and spices, and then, as if rebooting, gives Griffith a downright disarming smile — innocence itself, delicious and dangerous — and, pouring a pinch of white powder into his palm, reddened by the cold, blows into his face without waiting for an answer, —<em> here, this is the little that I remember.</em></p><p>— What are you ... what the fuck are you doing? — a few grains of sand fall into the eyes ...</p><p>
  <em>
    <strike>... — He always walks with this umbrella like Ole–Luk–oie, only he throws sand  not in my eyes but in others.</strike>
  </em>
</p><p>... and Griffith furiously rubs them, — do you know where I'll put this flour right now?</p><p>
  <em>The opening notes of Bach's first sonata in G minor resound with a sad, mournful melody the narrow – even there is no room for street shoes — the entrance hall when the door opens, letting cold air and the sparse rays of the spring London sun into the dusty twilight; when the fourth step creaks, the music stops, but after a few seconds it resumes again, and even before the transition to adagio the sound dies down: having stopped driving his bow along the strings, Sherlock quietly says:</em>
</p><p>—<em>  Most people knock, Jim. But then, you're not most people, I suppose, —  putting the violin down, he looks over his shoulder, — kettle's just boiled. </em></p><p>
  <em>— Johann Sebastian would be appalled ... — lazily rolling chewing gum in his mouth and without taking his hands out of the trousers pockets of an expensive suit, Moriarty grabs a bright red red deluxe apple, which partly resembles a bottle of </em>
  <em>DKNY </em>
  <em>perfume  and casually tossing it into the air , pulls with a mockery and a languid Irish accent, — may I?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Please, — not a bit embarrassed, Holmes, like a pointer, points with a bow to a checkered chair, but the villain–consultant decisively approaches the rightful place of Sherlock, and not John Watson.</em>
</p><p><em>— You know, when he was on his deathbed, Bach, — imposingly sat down </em><em>on the leather armchair</em> <em> — not even just sitting down, but experiencing comfort with his whole body — Moriarty' begins to cut a juicy fruit with a "leatherman" utility knife, — he heard his son at the piano playing one of his... pieces... The boy stopped before he got to the end.</em></p><p>
  <em>— Then the dying man jumped out of bed, ran to the piano and finished it, — without even turning around, calmly, as if James came to a dinner party every day, Sherlock pours tea into porcelain mugs with a map of Great Britain, puts them on a saucer, pours milk and adds sugar — again, as if he knows Moriarty's preferences.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Couldn't cope with an  unfinished melody,— the villain–consultant licks his lips, consuming the detective with his eyes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Neither can you, that's why you've come.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Be honest: you're a tiny bit pleased, — Moriarty winks and, lounging on an armchair, examines the trinkets placed on the mantelpiece, and then looks at Sherlock again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— What, with the verdict?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— With me back on the streets, — James smiles badly, accepting the detective's treat with a slight nod and looking up at him, — every fairy tale needs a good old–fashiobed villain. You need me or you're nothing, — raising his eyebrows mockingly, he sips from a cup with a squelch, — because we're just alike, you and I, except you're boring. You're on the side of the angels.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— You got to the jury, of course, — ignoring the mockery, Holmes pours himself sugar and, artistically holding the saucer, stirring it with a quiet tinkling, looking condescendingly at his opponent.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— I got into to the Tower of London, you think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Cable network,— Sherlock guesses and, unbuttoning the seated one like a second skin of his jacket, sinks into John Watson's fabric chair.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Every hotel bedroom has a personalized TV screen. And every person has their pressure point, — Moriarty agrees, crossing his legs, — someone that they want to protect from harm. Easy peasy.</em>
</p><p><em>— So how are you going to do it? – blowing on a hot drink, asks Holmes, — </em>burn<em> me?</em></p><p>
  <em>— Ah–ah, that's the problem, the final problem, — Moriarty shrugs after mirroring the movement of the enemy; Sherlock, on the other hand, brings the cup to his mouth, but does not drink the tea — the upper lip with an ugly tick falls on the snow–white border with gilding, — have you worked out what it is yet? What's the final problem? — an unkind smirk becomes affectionate, even flirting, and the falsetto of the villain becomes cloyingly melodious when he blows on boiling water, — I did tell you... But did you just listen?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Having taken a powerful sip and without even frowning, he puts the mug on the saucer and taps with his fingers an unpretentious rhythm on the light gray trouser leg — middle, index, ring, again middle, index, large, twice ring; seemingly serenely shaking his toe"bottega veneta"  derby, the detective watches attentively every movement of the Irishman's sleek hand, analyzing and sorting out something in his mind.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— How hard do you find it to say “I don’t know”? — Moriarty continues to mock languidly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>—  I don’t know,— the detective makes a sarcastic face, placing the service on the coffee table and folding his palms in a characteristic gesture.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Oh, that's clever, very clever, awfully clever, shit oneself how clever, — a fleeting smile still illuminates Holmes's skeptical face, from which fine wrinkles cut into perfectly smooth skin, — just do not forget that the main rule of genius is not to get confused in my own illusions, Sherlock. Speaking of clever, have you already told your little friends yet?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>—  Told them what? — smacking his lips and setting his cup on the coffee table, Sherlock folds his palms and rests them against his chin, looking closely at Moriarty.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Why did broke into all those places and never took anything?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— No.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— But do you understand?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Obviously.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Off you go, then, — eating an apple straight from the knife, like a chav, Moriarty scoffs — a fox-shaped tie holder shines in the light of the setting sun.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Tell you what you already know?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— No, prove that you know it,— James chomps mockingly, chewing with his mouth open.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— You didn’t take anything, because you don't need to,— Sherlock starts the deduction, carefully studying the interlocutor, reading his every movement.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Good.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— You'll never need to take anything ever again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Very good,— Moriarty nods, not even bothering to look at the detective,— because?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Because nothing, nothing in the Bank of England, o the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three, — Holmes confidently mints, taking his hands away from his face.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>—  I can open any door with anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as private bank account now, they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy, I own secrecy. Nuclear codes?  I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world of locked rooms the man with the key is a king, and honey, — here Moriarty closes his eyes, flirting with Sherlock and reveling in his own greatness, savoring him like an exquisite delicacy, — you should see me in a crown ...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— You were advertising all through the trial, you were showing the world what you can do,  — amazed at his guess, Holmes puts his hands on the armrests of the chair and tries his best not to show tension.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— And you were helping. Big client list... Rogue governments, intelligence communities, terrorist cells... They all want me, — Moriarty puts another apple slice in his mouth, — suddenly, I'm Mr Sex.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— If you can break any bank, what do you care about the highest bidder?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— I don't, I just like to watch all them competing. "Daddy loves me the best." Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know, you've got John, — the villain–consultant contorts his face, playing to a small audience, — I should get myself a live–in one, too...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Why are you doing all of this?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— ... It must be so funny.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— You don't want money or power, not really.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Moriarty doesn't answer: looking at his hands, he plunges the apple into the knife with a manic frenzy.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— What is it all for?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— I want to solve the problem. Our problem. The final problem, — </em>
  <em>raising his eyebrows </em>
  <em>again, Moriarty moves forward, — it's going to start very soon, Sherlock... the fall. But don't be scared — falling is just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination, — raising his eyes to the ceiling, he lowers them with a whistle and, imitating the slap of a body falling to the ground, glances at Sherlock from under his brow; with bloodshot eyes and swollen veins he seems to be possessed by the devil, if not the very ruler of the underworld in flesh-and-blood.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Never liked riddles, — Holmes gets up and eloquently buttons his jacket back, looking down at Moriarty.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Learn to, — James also rises and straightens the hem of the gray suit, — because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I. Owe. You.</em>
</p><p>... Griffith falls to the ground and finds himself in the bushes not far from the bus stop near the post office, numb and with his head buzzing like with a merciless hangover. It's still dark outside: apparently, he was lying around for an hour or two at most, although he froze as if he had been lying at least all night. While still lying on the ground, he checks his pockets — everything is in place, it’s strange that he was not robbed (although there’s really nothing to steal from him) — and, rolling from his back to his stomach, pulls up his good leg and still manages to get up, even though the frozen body.</p><p> Still wondering that he didn't die of hypothermia, James stumbles home, since the bus stop is only three hundred yards away.</p><p>Standing in the vestibule between two doors, Griffith pulls off his jacket and, prying the toe of his left foot by the heel, pulls off the boot with his right and begins to struggle with another, swearing at what it’s worth — bending in half is too painful, and it is very difficult to lift or unscrew the problem limb, but still he manages to take off his shoes, even though it takes about seven minutes. Stepping as quietly as possible, he trudges to his room to take a sip of pain reliever and take a shower: his shirt and thermal underwear stink of sweat, and now he smells like Bill on their summer trips to the bay.</p><p><em>"What happened behind the school yesterday? I must have blacked out. Deer Park View, 11, please call me back. JKG",</em> — after shaking himself out of his street clothes and texting Holmes, James stumbles into the bathroom, overwhelmed by a strange scene in the living room of a tiny apartment in central London – he seems to have stumbled upon something similar on Dr. Watson's blog. It turns out that Sherlock, in some way guided by him alone, can broadcast his memories directly into the brain of the double — or is it Griffith, without knowing it, managed to rummage in the detective's head?</p><p>The images that he somehow saw that night fill his entire head, spread along each convolution, and the words constantly flicker before his eyes, like annoying flies in the heat or those nasty dark spots on the retina that remain for a long time after he opens the eyes that are too sensitive to light, causing nausea and seizures of some kind of ... disorientation, or something.</p><p>When he squats on the side of the bathroom to take off his socks, jeans and panties — Griffith, who has read all sorts of horrors about how fragile bones become due to cancer, does not risk doing this while standing — he almost falls back, at the last moment grabbing the sink.</p><p>Sitting gently on a non-slip mat, he squeezes a little shampoo into his palm and runs one hand into his hair, the other grasping the washcloth hook to keep from falling. Concentratingly whipping a little unpleasant-smelling foam — Jamie absolutely did not like the combination of "men's perfume" plus "hygiene product", but there was nothing other than mom's shampoo and laundry soap — he wonders how to feel and write correctly what is so persistent Sherlock demands from him. Griffith with all his heart wants to help this idiot, secretly hoping that the detective will be imbued with gratitude and will respond with at least a bit of reciprocity in the feelings that James has for him — it is so disgusting to become so attached, some idiotic love spell, bloody hell...</p><p>... After Moriarty left Baker Street, thunder-stuck Sherlock remains sitting in his armchair, folding his palms in a favorite gesture and looking distantly out of the window; the face of a crime boss is standing before his eyes, looking with the expression of a serial maniac dressed in an expensive suit by an absurd accident. The graceful profile of the detective in the milky, pale yellow light of dawn seems beautiful, almost angelic, and James, having absorbed like a sponge all this strange story that does not agree with the psychological portrait of the double, the continuation of which he already knows, feels growing, strange detached, but no less sickly craving for Holmes.</p><p>Is it love? Or just a desperate unwillingness to be alone? It seems to Griffith that he has fallen into some kind of mental quadrature web: angular and thin lines get confused, intersecting with each other and leading to different points of antagonism: cancer against James, James against Moriarty, Moriarty against Sherlock, Sherlock against cancer, and it is not clear, what exactly crosses out this formed cross.</p><p>Apparently, one of the parents also decided to take a shower or began to wash the dishes: the water immediately becomes unbearably hot and flows down the back, burning the skin that is thinning from illness and drugs. The steam starts to spin his head, and James, like a blind kitten, presses against the wall, trying to find and turn the tap with slippery hands, but he stubbornly does not want to turn. Not giving a damn about the foam getting into his eyes, and he bursts into tears like a girl, James opens his eyelids to find that fucking faucet and stop the boiling water pouring at him from the broken-down shower head.</p><p>Hot spray, from which there is nowhere to escape, falls on the ulcer on the thigh, from which Griffith screams and coughs as his cough-torn lungs fill with too humid air on inhalation, and an endless hot desert stretches from pain in the chest to pain in the leg, thereby consciousness begins to disappear in a thick haze, and Jim grabs the curtain ...</p><p>Everything around him becomes unsteady and wrong, as if he really drowns, plunging lower and lower into some kind of a well or a oubliette, spiraling down like Dante's circles of hell.</p><p>... The plastic hooks break one after the other, and Griffith dives somewhere down to the red–hot tile ...</p><p>The heat descends with him, into light beige and soft, and James with his fading consciousness, clings to some chain....</p><p>... But all the same he collapses, falling on his side, and the bottom of the bathroom flies towards him ...</p><p>The last thing that the mind perceives is the face of Moriarty, twisted either by fear or by hatred, heart–rendingly screaming "<em>SHERLO–O–OK!</em>!!" and a sharp flash of pain in the thigh, which shot through the exhausted body from the knee to the lower back.</p><p>
  <strong>November 2009, Pembrokeshire, Haverfordwest.</strong>
</p><p>That's what he definitely lacks for complete happiness — a rupture of the ischio–femoral ligament and a bruised bone in some area — it seems, linea aspera (at least, it was precisely in these letters on the poster that the doctor showed, explaining where exactly he appeared crack), if James remembers correctly. Although if he doesn't remember, what's the point? The fact remains: the trauma has been aggravated by rhabdomyosarcoma, and now the malignant cells will devour bone tissue with even greater frenzy, and it will never ankylose normally — again because of sarcoma — and now all the choice that he has is only...</p><p>— It's okay, Mr. Griffith, — smiling affectionately, the blue-eyed nurse carrying him from the radiologist to the next specialist with a turned-up nose and thin eyebrows chirps, — you are still so young, a tiny injury even in your case is not a sentence.</p><p>— Fuck you, Mrs. Morsten, — Jim grumbles, clutching the armrests of the wheelchair and looking gloomily at a fresh picture, then at his feet, carefully covered with a faded official blanket, — be so kind to leave your "tweet-tweet" for those who take care.</p><p>— Of course I do understand that you are not in the most enviable position, but do not forget that ...</p><p>—  Mrs. Morsten! — it is a pity that the hospital gurneys do not have a stop valve, otherwise he would have shown this blond bitch what cancer is and how pigs are flying, — do your job in silence! You are definitely a person, but you are the service staff now, so shut up!</p><p>Pursing her already thin lips, the woman frowns and silently accompanies the patient to the destination, where she also, without uttering a word, helps him get onto the couch and, undressing from the waist down, nods to the doctor and sits down at the table to fill out a medical record, periodically checking with X–ray data and previous records.</p><p>— You need to learn to be tolerant of people, Mr. Griffith, — Dr. Brooks says quietly and calmly, putting on Jamie a rigid fixing bandage with Velcro, and then with the help of the orderly gently transplants him to the gurney and joins Mary.</p><p>— They need to learn not to piss me off, Dr. Brooks, — Jim retorts, bashfully lowering his eyes — like studying the leg securely fixed in the hip splint: it’s in vain that he yelled at the nurse, although she’s wrong too — there is clearly no communication experience with seriously ill people.</p><p>—  Did you complain about the crunch in the joint until the last fall? — taking a substantial folder from Morsten and leafing through the medical history, the orthopedic traumatologist turns his head to Griffith and looks at him expectantly over his glasses.</p><p>— No, it crunched only after the first one, and then not really, because the operation was not done, it should have been indicated there.</p><p>With a chuckle of approval, Dr. Brooks walks over the card again and begins filling out the forms.</p><p>— Well ... uhm ... what shall we do now? — unable to withstand the vague tension, Jim asks, twirling a red woolen thread around his wrist in order to occupy his hands with something — oh, if he had a Rubik's cube or some other crap, — there is a prospect of walking, something more or less normal, until ... — he immediately remembers how Laura jumped up when he told her about the operation, — well, you understand.</p><p>— I would recommend you to get a wheelchair, Mr. Griffith. But if you can't afford it, then at least use crutches. You will receive all the recommendations after discharge, — to the disgust of an impartial doctor, Jamie makes a strong desire to take a damn hospital card, which is almost thicker than himself, and hit her in the face of this Aesculapius, but instead he mumbles:</p><p>— And if I do exercises? Well, there, swing my knees, do swings and stand on tiptoe ...</p><p>—  It could help with osteosarcoma, Mr. Griffith. In your case, unfortunately, the more muscles you have — the more space for malignant cells you give. But training your back and arms will definitely not be superfluous.</p><p>— And the surgery? I heard that a rupture of ligaments can be easily treated with this one, like her ... — he starts fiddling with the cap from the biggin of his hoodie, wondering if the question will work for him and how much all this luxury will cost, — cruciate ligament plastic, but not the knee...</p><p>—  Of course we can try, but no one can guarantee you a successful outcome, Mr. Griffith.</p><p>— Fuck it, let's do it, — running his fingers into his slightly grown hair, Jim nervously bites his lower lip, — there is nothing to lose, and it probably won't be worse.</p><p>
  <strong>September 2009, London, hospital. St. Bartholomew.</strong>
</p><p>—  Well, my friend, fish out ya bojangles, — adjusting thick glasses and pulling on gloves, the nurse says and unpacks a disposable razor.</p><p>Chilled James — it has never happened in his whole life that a woman with a blade  touches his property — obediently unfastens the splint and lowers his pants with panties and, closing his eyes, freezes on the couch with his legs slightly parted, listening to the unpleasant creaking sensations in the groin when the tip passes over the delicate skin of the scrotum.</p><p>A few minutes of awkwardness — and now, packed in a diaper  Griffith is held in a sitting position by two orderlies, while the anesthesiologist, asking him to be patient and not twitching in any way, slowly inserts the needle into the spine, after which Jim finds himself once again on the operating table, crucified like Jesus Christ on the cross: on one hand there is a cuff, in the other a dropper is stuck, outstretched legs, doctors and a screen are hidden by a screen, the body chills from nerves and cold rubber, and from the smell of sterility and a nasal catheter stuck into the nostrils nausea rolls in his throat.</p><p>— John, let's get him lower, I  can't see a damn thing, — is heard from behind a piece of green cloth, but James does not look in that direction: a bright lamp shines directly in the eyes, and its diverging rays resemble a cage under a microscope, or a star with a two-ring halo.</p><p>— Wait, his hands will remain without supports.</p><p>— Never mind, he'll bend 'em, he's not a lil' boy.</p><p>The assistants lift Griffith's forearms gently, and the doctors forcefully pull him down by the legs, from which the septum is almost under his nose; shrunken hands smear on a table that is surprisingly warm and pleasant to the touch – Jesus, this is his leg, which has simply lost sensitivity and therefore does not seem to be part of the body.</p><p>Sighing, Jim somehow folds his arms across his chest and, closing his eyes, scrolls old songs in his head and thinks over the elements of the canvas about Sherlock and Moriarty — <em>... I need you to write about us ... <strike>Make us whole ...</strike></em> — until suddenly a piercing screech is heard drills, shaking the whole body with micro-vibrations.</p><p>— Doctor, what ...</p><p>— Silence, owlet, — the doctor appears from behind a tarp, and although his face is hidden under a mask, you can see that he smiles, they say, — everything is going as it ought to, we just drill a hole in the bone so that there is where to drive the bolt that will hold the new bunch. You will also breathe hammer blows. Be patient. Everything is really okay, you're doing well.</p><p>Sobbing, Jim nods and patiently waits for this psychological execution to end, and now — a piece of tarpaulin moves aside, like a theater curtain, and his gaze is presented with a perfomance: the surgeon companions, putting his legs — one brownish–yellow from an antiseptic — on his shoulders, quickly wrap them with elastic bandages.</p><p>— Have you ever been to the sea? — the face of a large orderly hangs over Griffith similar to John Coffey from The Green Mile, but not black.</p><p>— Sure. Why?</p><p>—  You'll swim right now, — the fellow in a starched white uniform grins, — grab the handles, now we will roll over on your tummy.</p><p>With the help of the operating team Jim rolls the upper half of his body — the lower half is felt not as a part him but something ownerless load weighing a ton — to one side and, grasping the gurney handles, he helps the assistants who took it under the hips and ankles to drag themselves onto the carriage.</p><p>— Don't drink for three hours, don't even try to get up, you'd better just press the call button if you need anything, — explains the brute orderly, taking Griffith to the ward, — even if you need to take your headphones from the bedside table.</p><p>Having put Jamie on the bunk, he silently plugs the extension cord into the outlet at Griffith's feet and, rummaging in his backpack, puts a charger, wet wipes, a player and a mobile phone on the bedside table, after which he returns with a hefty — the size of a lid from a large saucepan — a heating pad and attaches it to the operated thigh.</p><p>—  Well, how's it going? — as soon as the orderly leaves, the guy lying on the next bed — familiar and unfamiliar at the same time — puts the book down.</p><p>— Fine, — Jim, who is not used to starting communication with a bunch of flips, is embarrassed, — what will happen to me?</p><p>— Nothing, but right now the anesthesia will pass, you will sing in a different way, — the misfortune fellow smirks and, having stuck his headphones in, looks at something on the tablet until he is taken to the operating room.</p><p>Unfortunately, he did not lie — as soon as Griffith manages to take a selfie and unsubscribe to his parents and friends that the operation was successful, the effect of the anesthesia fades away and the burning, bursting pain begins to literally bite into his side with an angry dog, and James, having begged for anesthetic, takes a laptop and starts writing about Sherlock and Moriarty to distract himself.</p><p>
  <em>… — “You can have me arrested, you can torture me, you can do anything you like with me, but nothing's going to prevent my gunmen from pulling the trigger, — hisses Napoleon of the underworld, keeping a little crazy brown eyes from the detective, — your only three friends in the world will die unless...</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Unless I kill myself and complete your story, — Sherlock mutters, not looking at Jim's smug nod.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— You've got to admit, that's sexier, — the villain–consultant energetically nods, coming close to the pale Sherlock.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— And I die in disgrace.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Of course, that's the point of this, — Moriarty shrugs and bends down to see what is happening at the door of St. Bartholomew Hospital, — oh, you've got an audience now! Off you pop. Go on, — Jim, like a predator, begins to circle around the detective, indifferently and indifferently munching chewing gum, — I told you how this ends. Your death is the only thing that's going to call of the killers. I'm certainly not going to do it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Would you give me one moment, please? One moment of privacy, — climbing the parapet, Sherlock asks in a trembling voice, — please.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Of course, — snorts Moriarty and walks a few steps away from Holmes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The ensuing silence is broken by the contented and at the same time sarcastic laugh of the detective, jumping off the edge of the roof.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— What?! What is it? — turning around sharply, the villain-consultant changes in his face: the expression of a satisfied boy with a tricky trick turns into a painful confusion of a spider who did not expect his victim to avoid imminent death, — what did I miss?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— You're not going to do it. So the killers can be called off, then there's a recall code or a word or a number. I don't have to die if I got you–u–u, — the detective is now turning circles, definitely enjoying the confusion of Moriarty backing away.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— You think  you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?! — every movement of Jim gives out a strange mixture of surprise and admiration for the flight of Holmes's thought.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Yes! — two giants of thought, standing on opposite sides of the barricades, as if dancing an exquisite waltz, balancing each other, — so do you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Sherlock, your Big Brother and all the King's horses  couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to, — Moriarty says, stopping and hiding his hands in his pockets.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>—Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you, — with a certain amount of passion in his voice, Holmes comes too close to the villain–consultant that it was impossible not to see a certain intimacy in this, — prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Nah. You talk big, — says Moriarty with a face. Although the sun hits him in the eyes, giving the iris an unusual acorn shade, he does not squint, — na-ah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>—I may be on the side of the angels,— Holmes whispers, moving closer and closer to the criminal, a little bit more — and their faces will touch in a strawberry kiss, — but don't think for one second that I am one of them.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Looking up at Sherlock, Jim frowns strangely and immediately smiles admiringly, as if such a revelation descended upon him, which all twelve apostles together did not dare to dream of.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— No ... you're not... — opening his mouth, at first he blinks quickly, as if a grain of sand had got on the sclera, — I see. You're not ordinary. No.  You're me... You're me, — James does not take his eyes off Sherlock, and a strange, frightening smile wanders across his face, while his hands gently touch his shoulders hidden under the hem of a woolen coat, — thank you ... William Scott Sherlock Holmes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Still hiding his left hand in his pocket, Moriarty holds out his right hand to the detective, and they seem to seal with a handshake some non–verbal oath given to each other a long time ago, somewhere in a past life.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— Thank you, — Jim whispers, ignoring the tear running down his cheek, — bless you. As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends, you've got a way out. Well.... Good luck with that. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Suddenly he breaks off physical contact, draws out a pistol and, putting the barrel of a pistol in his mouth, pulls the trigger and ... "</em>
</p><p>A shot echoes in the head with an explosion of a nuclear bomb — he is so immersed in the scene unfolding in front of his imagination — from which Jim twitches and literally falls out of the inspiration that illuminated him and only now  he realizes how badly his leg hurts: it would seem that a little more than three hours have passed since the injection of the anesthetic, but it <em>already </em>seems to Griffith that he is being cooked alive, only partially – this strange hot weight, as if someone put a hot  barbell plate instead of a compress, and it seems t if he throw back the blanket he will see a well-done piece of meat instead of a thigh that  separates from the bone with an awful ease, and it frightens and forces him to press the call button for the nurse's post, but even the squabbling of a squabble cannot distract James from the scene unfolding before his eyes:</p><p>
  <em>... "In disbelief, Sherlock stands on the edge of the roof, looking in shock at the Moriarty's body lying in a pool of blood, on whose lips still hovers the ghost of a mocking laugh that has not yet sounded: ominous laughter — insane, suffering and hysterical — ringing in silence, as if trying to shout down her until it starts to sore throat ... "</em>
</p><p><em>— That's how it was,</em> — hanging over him and pouring steam into whiskey, feverishly whispering appeared from nowhere, wet with sweat Sherlock, — <em>can you scrutinize if he is  really dead?</em></p><p>—  Wait, I just made it up, — Jim justifies, recoiling from the unpleasant smell that causes nausea, — I thought you knew everything for sure. Where is your vaunted deduction and observation?</p><p>
  <em>— That's just the point ... After all, then there was a bunch of evidence that he continued his activities ... The body was not found either ... It haunts me. Like a thread sticking out.</em>
</p><p>—  Well, why pull for it, then?</p><p>
  <em>— Otherwise, life has no meaning.</em>
</p><p>—  So you jumped? To save them? — Griffith can't stand it. The question, of course, is stupid — after all, here it is, standing before him, more alive than all living things — but Jim <em>cannot</em> help but ask.</p><p>
  <em>— Shut up. Don't speak, don't breathe! Just bend over and look!</em>
</p><p>— If you want an honest answer from me, then I have the right to ask the same, — Jim stands his ground, but Sherlock, once again brazenly pushing all conceivable and inconceivable boundaries of what is permitted, stubbornly repeats the demand, like a spoiled boy, but in the same abruptly, as it appeared, disappears through the door leading into the ward a second before the nurse enters the room.</p><p>
  <strong>November 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>— Gorblimey ... — how stupid it was to consider himself incapacitated <em>before</em>: before the operation, he could get up and take at least a few steps, albeit with a walker, and now, with the slightest careless movement, a poisonous swarm of termites makes a poorly healing thigh blaze, forcing either to grit their teeth and stand their ground, or freeze in place and shout at the whole house, calling for help.</p><p>This is some kind of funeral service: to self-respect, gnawed by gluttonous malignant cells. To life fading away before his  eyes with every twitching step of the sweep hand — tick-tock, tick-tock. To self-control that had flown into a drug dependence of painkillers. To his own helplessness that  is now brightened in all colors by Davey — less than two weeks after the <em>fall</em> in the bathroom that broke his life completely; this cutesie-wootsie son of a bitch  started visiting them almost every single day and then generally moves to the Griffiths, occupying Chloe's former chamber on the second floor — just opposite James's room.</p><p>Griffith is ready to finally put an end to himself, because now he is a helpless set of body parts held together by clouding mind and connective tissue, barely able to stand up on his own. It's hard, very hard to accept the fact that without physical support — at least until (if) the crack is healed — he can't even relieve himself or change his shoes, and come to terms with the position of the weak. It’s even more difficult — completely and completely entrusting Davey with taking care of yourself and not fucking around in front of him, flaunting inappropriately. On the contrary, James reluctantly tries to speak, show and explain so that Norton reads the signs in case Griffith cannot say — <em>show me where it hurts, dear</em> — what he needs, and succeeds in this.</p><p>He wins another victory in a completely unexpected field: being alone for once, James quietly, as if in order not to wake up a loved one sleeping on the bed, locks himself in a room and  sneaks into Sherlock's Mind Palace — there is practically no light without a master, and only the dim flickering of rare wall lamps prevents him from crashing into even more randomly than before the dusty dressers with tattered file folders, shelves with books and other poorly identifiable trash; at some point it even seems to Griffith that he was mistaken and went to the wrong place – but what if when Jim comes back and his room turns out to be different? And the door will lead not into a cozy corridor hung with photographs but into the same dark, alien, abandoned and extinct darkness?</p><p><em>— Well, thief, — </em>Moriarty's uterine roar is heard from afar — fear is immediately diluted with relief: after all, he got to the address — when Griffith, once again turning right in search of the east wing, finds himself in completely impenetrable darkness, —<em> I smell you ... I hear your breath…. I feel your air ... Where are you?</em></p><p>—  It's you to tell me, — pressing his palm against the wall so as not to stumble, Jamie snorts, — is this how you meet guests?</p><p><em>— Unheard insolence,</em> — the villain-consultant grins, — <em>but quite suitable for a thief and a liar one.</em></p><p>— I don’t know what I could have stolen from you, — trying to hide his nervousness behind impudence, and at the same time provoke Moriarty to dialogue in order to be guided at least by his voice, Jim smiles, — and why am I a liar, by the way, too. I have nothing to do with you at all. Only to Sherlock.</p><p>As soon as Jim reaches the next turn, he notices a vague image flashes through the light that flashed for a moment — too quickly to catch — and the corridor plunges into darkness again, except that somewhere in the distance a dull red speck of emergency lighting burning in end of the east tunnel.</p><p><em>— Come out into the light, thief</em>, — Moriarty's voice sounds much closer, and he accompanies his words with a slam of the door with the inscription "221–B", above which a full–fledged rocker is burning.</p><p>— I would love to, — Griffith agrees, swallowing a lump of tension — you can't show your fear so as not to provoke aggression, — the thing is there is no switch, and you are still outside the door, in which there is not even a peephole. I'm not stupid, you know.</p><p><em>— Where do you get that idea</em>?</p><p>— Made it myself.</p><p><em>—  What's the point in being smart if you can't prove it? — </em>continues to mock the namesake, playing with the pen, — <em>I can give you both the key and the flashlight, but you can open it only if you are really smart.</em></p><p>— Scumbag.</p><p>— ... James?</p><p>— What? — startled — Jim, apparently, did not notice how Davey entered, and God only knows how long he looked at his friend frozen in catatonia.</p><p>— Who the fuck is Sherlock?</p><p>It intercepts in his chest, as many years ago, when his mother almost caught him masturbating on "Physique Pictorial", but the fright is abruptly replaced by anger — and what the fuck is Norton reading something that belongs only to James? Without holding a cigarette to his mouth, Griffith ponders the answer and, with difficulty formulating it so that Norton does not call the psychic brigade, finally says:</p><p>— Sherlock is a big area of my thoughts, Sherpa Davey. And since you are allowed to rummage through my things, please do not poke your long nose into my intellectual property.</p><p>— So he is a fictional character?</p><p>— Are you daft?</p><p>—  Why do you swear at once? It just looks as if you didn’t come up with it, but saw it with your own eyes ... Or as if you know his story like the back of your hand.</p><p>— I’m just a fucking awesome writer, — Jim says, blowing smoke out of his mouth, puffing with pride to himself.</p><p>— But for some reason you took the name of the hero of Sir Conan Doyle.</p><p>—  Consider this as a fanfic. I will change the names later, and I took the characters as a draft, so it's easier to follow the plot, — Griffith lies, — so did you like it or not?</p><p>—  Generally, yes, but this one scares me a little, — nodding at a chubby stack of notebooks glued into one binder, Norton shrugs his shoulders, — perhaps, if not him, you would live your dating life ...</p><p>
  <em>Yes, thanks for the input, Andersen ...</em>
</p><p>— Better be glad that I can be distracted by at least something. Or should you buzz all your ears so that you penetrate?</p><p>—  Of course I can listen, but if it will be like in the case of "Jaws", it is better not worth it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Х. Nes quisquam melior medicus, quam fidus amicus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I really do hope that someone reads this, and in this case I'm begging you, my dear reader, just let me know that I'm not alone with this heartbreaking story.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are fateful days</p><p>Of the most severe bodily ailment</p><p>And terrible moral worries;</p><p>And life weighs on us</p><p>And chokes us like a nightmare.</p><p>Happy to whom on days like this</p><p>The all-merciful God will send</p><p>An invaluable, best gift —</p><p>A friend's sympathetic hand</p><p>F.I. Tyutchev</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>December 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>SH: Well, it turned out that this mysterious man in black was simply stealing light bulbs from the lanterns of Kensington gardens.</em>
</p><p>Laughing, James warms his frozen palms for a couple of seconds on a hefty mug of green tea — his mother persistently pours him exactly this: she has read somewhere that he helps fight cancer (here she is not quite right, of course: if you shorten Sherlock's twenty-page lecture to one sentence, catechins, which have strong antioxidant activity  are just one of the important elements of protection against cancer, but not a cure) — and, wiggling his feet wrapped in warm socks and lamb's-wool slipper-boots, scribbles the answer:</p><p>
  <em>DKG: I hope london was able to finally fall asleep peacefully once this fuckin-weirdo bastard sat on the bunk)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>SH: Well, he didn't sit down, you probably read it in John's blog.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>DKG: to be honest, I didn’t read much, I'm not a big fan of detective stories) they all look the same to me — “what's this? A murder! The motive is zero, I am a killer." But I would listen first-hand for sure, with great pleasure)))</em>
</p><p>
  <em>SH: Stop putting those stupid brackets at the end of a sentence. It feels like I'm talking not to you but Molly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>DKG: but  i like 'em) they hug words and make the text more emotionally colored) and does not look as stupid as with a bunch of smileys)))</em>
</p><p>
  <em> S</em>
  <em>H: Oh, for GOD'S sake...</em>
</p><p>The chat window blinking the message "SH left the chat" goes out at the same time as the knock on the door, and James, glancing at his watch, sighs heavily: half past one p.m., what means that Davey is to come and give him another injection and shove another handful of pills, from which he at first will start to feel sleepy, then vomit, and then — either he wants to go to the toilet, or again to nap. In any case, only one thing can be said for sure: the pain will go away, but the mouth will dry out, the eyes will start to stick together, and the consciousness will become heavy, clumsy and awkward like a hefty fellow in a children's tent.</p><p>Having suppressed the desire to punch Norton's cute — despite the scar left from childhood after the operation on the cleft lip — cake hole, Griffith logs off  in case of some overly curious Casanova with a long fringe will have the idea to dig into his files while he is asleep — and, leaning heavily on a cane, gets up from the computer and waddles towards the bathroom, while David puts on the table — right on the resume printed by Jim who volunteered to help Norton with his job search — a plate of some fish-and-tomato slush, and conjures with a first-aid kit, scrupulously scattering pills for the evening and night in the compartments of a special container.</p><p>When James returns from the bathroom, he is slightly drifted: every step is taken with difficulty and with nasty, slimy lightning bolts shoots in the knee, the stomach and lower back from a practically unrecoverable ligament, and it burns unpleasantly in the groin after urination, and Norton, noticing his weakness, just in time holds out his hand and helps Jim on the bed.</p><p>— Are you going to have lunch before your medicine or after, Jim?</p><p>— Not going at all, — Griffith replies, leaning wearily against the wall, and turns away from the plate — there, outside the window, in the gradually darkening gray sky, puffy snowflakes are whirling fancifully like lazy fat flies, — I'm gonna puke if I try to stomach this crap.</p><p>— Jim, you need to eat, — a cloud comes over Norton's face, — to have strength. Come on, just a little, huh?</p><p>Hell, Davey is a good guy, kind and all that, but sometimes he is such a hen that only clucking and white feathers are not enough, and his hands reach by themselves for a lava lamp in the shape of a rocket to throw it into this unshaven, pitiful face, or hit him pretty well with a stick right between the eyes — anything, if only this pain in the ass  dumps back to his fatso, leave him alone and never again appear on their paved path leading from the gate and branching into three paths to the garage, house and garden.</p><p>— My body is already wasting too much energy taking up these fucking pills to torment it with digesting all the crap. It's like Mells' celery — you spend more calories while devouring it.</p><p>Norton twitches at the mention of his wife-to-be, although he knows how well Griffith treats both her and their relationship, unlike Abby, and stubbornly removes the curly bang that reach into her eyes from her forehead:</p><p>— Ta ta for now, Jim, we have the regime ...</p><p>— Totalitarian,  as far as I can see. I don’t want to, fuck off.</p><p>— C'mon, just eat it. It's good for your bones.</p><p>— Leave me alone, I'm perfectly rawboned already, — James does not even try to hide his irritation, pushing the plate that his friend hands him, and covers his legs with a blanket.</p><p>— Do you want to write? O'course you do. And for this, the mind must be fed.</p><p>— I'm already smart, shut up! Give me a shot and go fuck yourself. Or just go fuck yourself right now, I can do it myself.</p><p>— Oh, Jamie, what did your doctor say? — Norton continues to gunny and, picking up some fish and mashed potatoes in a spoon, brings it to Jim's mouth with such a guilty face and didactic tone that Griffith can't stand it and grabs the cutlery and dishes and throws lunch at Davey:</p><p>— Bloody hell, <em>don't you fucking dare</em> to spoonfeed me! — but Harelip just shakes his head mournfully instead of freaking out, or at least going to wash and change, like any normal person, and draws doxorubicin into a syringe, — and if he tells me to fuck my cat? —  Griffith mutters angrily, rolling up his sweater sleeve, —  where is this gray bastard, by the way?</p><p>— Since it’s not at your bed, it means that it’s either sleeping somewhere or shitting somewhere,— Davey shrugs, ignoring the caustic comment of a friend and tearing open the package with a sterile napkin, — or mating the neighbors' Daisy or Demi-Purr.</p><p>— No, <em>he's</em> a castrate, how can <em>he</em>...</p><p>— Well, maybe Tom’s just tonguing, — Davey smiles softly, tapping Jim on the bend of his elbow so that thin, all in paths, veins show through more clearly on the skin, — the absence of personal belongings is not a reason of depriving a lady of pleasure.</p><p>James, laughing, crawls on the bed, going down lower, and squints his eyes from the unpleasant sensation when Norton loosens the tourniquet while pressing the syringe plunger: even closing his eyes, he catastrophically clearly feels how a cold needle pierces instantly reddened, as if from a burn, epidermis, how the medicine spreads through the radial recurrent artery and spreads throughout the body.</p><p>Turning on his good side and bending his arm so that the cotton wool soaked in alcohol does not fall off ahead of time, Griffith watches as Davey sits at his desk, filling out a diary in which he painstakingly writes everything about Jamie: food, sleep, natural functions, pressure measuring, reactions to medications and other stuff like accounting for "crisis situations" until he lies down facing the wall and waves his hand towards the door, indicating that everything is in order and it is time for a little vacuum.</p><p>As soon as Davey leaves, Jim sets the alarm — he must definitely wake up when the "golden hour" — the time between two medications, when the pain is not so strong, and the thoughts are no longer so vague — comes and, closing his eyes, he thinks about the detective, until Thomas jumps into his bed with a funny meowing, immediately curling up against his belly to make a comfortable purr when the owner starts scratching  him behind his ears; imperceptibly Griffith again finds himself in the Mind Palace already unmistakably — <em>you put me in here,  you brought me my treats</em> — he finds a black door and through it, he "sees" that soon, in an easy state of mind, Sherlock will dream: well, here sits — all knees and nerves — with his graceful palms folded in a prayer gesture and staring with a stranger, unrecognising gaze at the dust dancing in the sunbeam making its way through a hole in dence curtains, listening intently: did not <em>that </em>step creak in the silence that penetrated into the brain like text blurred from the constant rereading, and shuddering happily and frightenedly at the same time when disembodied hands fall on his shoulders, and a quiet, almost soundless voice blows into his ear with an Irish accent:</p><p>
  <em>— Did you miss me?</em>
</p><p>A fluttering heart begins to beat loudly in his chest, from which Griffith abruptly, as if from a nightmare, opens his eyes, and does not immediately recognize his own room, immersed in the wrong twilight: it is rapidly getting dark outside the window — no wonder, winter is outside — and darkness like something material thickens in the corners of his dwelling, slowly spilling over the walls, repainting the egg-yellow wallpaper in its own way, swirls in the doorway of the bedroom, and in the bedroom itself it is already completely dark — a small and rather narrow, irregularly shaped, with a window facing north, it is completely drowning in bluish shadows, and for some reason he is worried about an empty chair on which are pants and a shirt: they seem to be missing something ... someone ... <em>missing Sherlock.</em></p><p>Of course he lied saying that he had not read his friend's blog — at least with the help of the diary it was possible to somehow maneuver, catching every appearance of Jim Moriarty in Holmes's life, and look for this damn code from the lock.</p><p>When a couple of days ago James caught sight of Watson's note under the heading "The Big Game", everything inside him went cold: once, a long time ago — about six months before he fell and injured his leg on the beach — Griffith was sitting at work, half correcting the Holocaust in relation to grammar in an article about Danish artists of some mediocrity sadly, half inventing an uncomplicated plot. At some point, for no apparent reason, he felt a little uncomfortable, even sucked in the stomach, but Jim, accustomed to conducting internal dialogues and being completely integrated into the perception of his stories, did not attach any importance to this: a picture appeared before his eyes Johann Vermeer's night version of "View of Delft", which was just mentioned in the essay, and an alien vein pulsed in his head “<em>gotta find, find why it is a fake, what is the punch line</em>”. Then it took Griffith five seconds to see an extra star — <em>the Van Burne Supernova</em> — and as soon as he spoke her name, he felt such relief, as if a load off his mind.</p><p>Did James know how he could help Sherlock long before he directly burst into his life? <em>What is he</em> overall?</p><p>Griffith simply <em>has to</em> make sure of Holmes's reality, and the only way to check this is to touch the detective — not see his face, not smell his scent or hear his voice, but literally sensate the warmth of his skin, feel its relief and the pulsation of blood in the wreaths on the back of the hand, make sure Sherlock is not a void in a neatly folded candy wrapper, which is not easy.</p><p>Just as Holmes needs a key to Moriarty, so James needs a key to his twin.</p><p>
  <strong>December 2009, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>"James Moriarty. He's gone and Sherlock won't dare admit it but he's devastated. He can't show it and I don't think he understands what he's feeling. Sometimes he's so cut off from everything, so cold, so lacking in emotion that when he does feel something... well I think it's the one thing on this planet he'll never quite get".</em>
</p><p>Griffith reads John's blog eyebrows frowning — damn it, they both seem to be jealous of Sherlock for the Irishman ...</p><p>A kind of funeral service by  Dr. Watson for the villain-consultant and the suddenly revealed sensitive hypostasis of Holmes is the only adequate post not flavored with gay Easter eggs, so also only under this publication Holmes does not scoff or crap in the comments with his sarcastic responses. And in this uncomplicated (and somewhat illiterate, from which the Griffith's inner radical linguist — as his friends and colleagues often called him — raised his bared head) recordings of a mournful and very tragic subtext, elusive and therefore attractive, even inspiring James to write a small excerpt about the coupledom of Sherlock and Moriarty: no eroticism or "curtain story" — just scraps of views and phrases that have merged with recent reflections and drawing of a perforated box around apple seeds, delightfully sounding exclusively in Cymraeg:</p><p>
  <em>"— I feel the hunger, — the star-traveler suddenly sighed after a short silence, into which he plunged after ending the story of his journey with a meeting with the time seller and taking an impressive gulp from a bottle.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— I didn't think you know what hunger is — you didn't eat or drink anything all week except what's in your bottle, — Moriarty raised his eyebrows in surprise.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>— I am not talking about that. The body is just a transport for the mind. And the mind also needs food.</em>
</p><p>Having finished the story and putting the manuscripts on the edge of the table, Jim returns — it's a good idea to take painkillers — to his old job, which he began about six months ago — translating Robert Frost's poems into Welsh.</p><p><em>— A far as I can see you got down to business extremely zealously, Jamie, —</em> Griffith flinches from surprise: the day is in full swing, and the house is not empty — except that Davey left for the weekend in Cheriton to Mells, and the sudden appearance of usually avoiding strangers Sherlock amazes him.</p><p>— You’ll be surprised but I have something to write about <em>beside</em>s you, Sherlock. What makes you think that I'm writing about <em>you</em>? —  he asks, leaning back in his chair and looking at the detective taking off his snow-dusted coat.</p><p><em>— Well, you're typing</em> a lot, — he replies with a slight carelessness, as if he is one hundred percent sure that he is right.</p><p>— Sherlock, I'm writing in Cymraeg, our words are all pretty long, that's why I'm <em>typing a lot</em>, — seeing the sincere surprise on the detective's face, Griffith can't help himself and giggles into his fist — oh just look at this self-centered asshole, who only thinks about himself — while Holmes bites his bottom lip and glances over the manuscript.</p><p>
  <em>— The language is completely idiotic, but as a matter of principle it is possible to make out, even interesting — however, purely because it needs to be deciphered.</em>
</p><p>— Good Lord! — James laughs, almost clapping his hands, — I got an Oscar!</p><p><em>— Pulitzer, actually,</em> — corrects Sherlock and, frowning, picks up the next piece of paper to continue the war with the grammar of the Cymraeg syllable, — <em>stop, what do you mean telling “if the worst enemy who wants to kill you came to you, first make tea, and then talk about fairy tales"?</em></p><p>— Or Darvin's, — ignoring the question, Jim snorts, looking annoyed as the detective touches his manuscript.</p><p>
  <em>— This sounds more like the truth, Jamie.</em>
</p><p>— First thing first, why don't you just tell me what do you want from me? — Griffith rubs his eyes wearily: the long sitting at the computer tired him, and he just wanted to obey the call of nature, have a shot and lie down for forty winks, as his leg hurts mercilessly since early morning, moreover, it is not large clusters of tumors and a emtysis that bring more suffering, but more and more growing ulceration — now it is not just a small blistering lesion on the skin, but a spongy, bloody conglomerate, completely dotted with scabs clinging to everything that is possible, which cannot even be eliminated— once James tried to pick up one of them with tweezers and tear it off, and as a result, a small piece of flesh was found in the metal pincers, which opened another small but deep wound.</p><p><em>— Well, just to  find out how you are doing, you know,</em> — Sherlock replies calmly, putting down the sheets and going to the wardrobe to open the door, on the inside of which there was a full-length mirror.</p><p>— Contact non-of-your-fucking-business ministry, — although Griffith is glad to see a double, but at the same time he is somewhat embarrassed to trudge to the toilet, while the uninvited guest is in charge of his room.</p><p><em>— Why are you so cruel? —</em> the detective pulls offendedly, intently examining his reflection and picking a spot on his chin, protruding his lower jaw in an ugly way.</p><p>— Just go fuck yourself, huh? Oh, poor terminally ill thing James! I'll come for half an hour for fuck's sake, give him half an hour of  my royal company, let him take it for an affection, while I watch him dance! — Griffith throws up his hands in indignation and purses his lips: now Sherlock causes in him only a bashful disgust, and something very unpleasant and gnawing — as if sarcoma, no one knows how, metastasized into his very <em>soul</em>, — do you know what it is all about? How does it hurt and  all shit?</p><p><em>—  Do you think  I have no idea how it all happens? —  </em>the detective dismisses, shaking his head in displeasure, <em>— you come just like that, make a sympathetic face, and you think: "the degree of stretching of which natural fibers I haven’t added to the list yet?” And the patient does not make any face. He has no face at all — he hates you and thinks: "Come on, you healthy motherfucker, ask how I'm doing."</em></p><p>— But who ...</p><p><em>— Sherrinford,—</em>  the detective says and turns to the window, crossing his arms, — <em>but it’s not important, it’s </em>generally difficult<em> to deal with people, while you expect certain words and actions from them. As soon as you understand that they are all just chatting, flaunting and listening only to themselves — there comes simplicity and clarity, and no disappointments for you.</em></p><p>— And Sherrinford is ...?</p><p><em>— The elder brother of Mycroft and mine. He also read J. M. Barrie to me when I were little, by the way. Shortly before his death he gave me a scarf, and I believed that it was his shadow, like Peter Pan, you know. And I never part with it to this day, although I know that this is a simple piece of fabric. Sentiments? Sentiments,</em> — blurting out a quick recitative, Sherlock somehow immediately sinks, like an apple tree struck by powdery mildew, and silence reigns in the room.</p><p>— So, Sherlock, what's wrong? I'm not a clinical idiot, you know.</p><p><em>— Where did you get that idea? —</em> the double wrinkles his forehead sarcastically.</p><p>— Piss off! — James shrugs off, angry that he cannot get rid of this strange, biting sensation in any way, — if you don't want to share I don't give a fuck.</p><p>
  
  <em>— Well, I'm just watching ... you have such a big family, and you are so friendly ... We did not have such a thing.</em>
</p><p>— So what did you have then? — Griffith straightens up with interest: Sherlock does not seem to be frank, but now, along the way, a trauma reinforced by something forces him to speak sincerely — well, or he just skillfully imitates such a state.</p><p><em>— Well ... we somehow huddled together, or something,</em> — the detective rubs his neck uncertainly, <em>— Mummy had Daddy, Mycroft had Sherrinford, and I had no one — after all, the age difference was too big — even a dog. Redbird was given to me after my brother died.</em></p><p>— What happened to him?</p><p>
  <em>— I have not the slightest desire to speak about my dead brother.</em>
</p><p>— Ok, I'm sorry. Well, have you already dressed up the Christmas tree in your Mind Palace?</p><p>
  <strong>December 2009, Pembrokeshire, Cheriton.</strong>
</p><p>— So, well, everyone get hugged! — Bill's joyful cry reads out the small dining room of Davey's cozy house, — we all kinda smile and rejoice Jesus!</p><p>Pressing the shutter of the camera standing on a tripod, the Scotsman quickly wedges into the crowd of guests and smiles broadly, looking at the white light of a dazzling flash that flew out of the camera lens.</p><p>A winter evening, preceding the "night of candles" smelling of snowflakes and festive cake, quietly and quickly descends into the Welsh urban-type settlement. A fire crackles merrily in the fireplace, casting bizarre shadows on the walls — for some reason, James's shadow has no head — and the wind knocks against the window frame decorated with foil carved figures: sometimes loudly and demanding, and sometimes it scratches softly like a lost kitten — well,  Davey doesn't have a cat, instead of it there is the Alsatian shepherd dog Edward, named after the English pirate Blackbeard.</p><p>James enjoys Christmas like a child: for some reason, this is the year the candles are burning warmer, the duck under the gooseberry sauce that Mells made by her own hands smells nicer — even though the nausea he could not resist and tasted a bite, and the holiday songs sound more harmonious, except that Sherlock is not enough, but these are already little things in life: there is no need to be sad when loving relatives and dear friends are nearby (though Miles is not there again, but this is already in the order of things), and everything around seems to be correct, appropriate and timely.</p><p>— There’s one thing I don’t understand, — his father says, wiping his glasses with a napkin, — where is Miles? Did you have a run-in with him?</p><p>— Dad, <em>don’t</em>, — Chloe says with a change in face, looking anxiously at her plate with Christmas pudding, — is there really nothing more to talk about besides Milo?</p><p>— Chloe, I think it's not worth it ... — Davey begins, but the girl interrupts him with a forced smile.</p><p>— Clem, Maddie, isn't it time for you to sleep yet? — a tense question sounds like the beginning of a discussion not intended for children's ears.</p><p>— Chloe, with your permission, — suddenly — more precisely, because of Milo's mention — feeling like an unwelcome guest at this table and generally a stranger at the celebration of life, James, leaning on a cane, gets up from the table and takes the yawning girls first to the bathroom to quickly douse them out of the shower and make sure they brush their teeth, and then to Norton's designated bedroom to dress the nieces in pajamas and put them in a double bed.</p><p><em>..."</em><em>but this was ignorance, for unless your tree fitted you it was difficult to go up and down, and no two of the boys were quite the same size. Once you fitted, you drew in [let out] your breath at the top, and down you went at exactly the right speed, while to ascend you drew in and let out alternately, and so wriggled up. Of course, when you have mastered the action you are able to do these things without thinking of them, and nothing can be more graceful,</em><em>"</em> — reading this passage, Jim is surprised by the thought that suddenly appeared in his head that book is talking about a grave, not just about a house under the ground.</p><p>— Uncle James, when your leg is good, shall we go to Cantelbury Gardens again? — Clem asks.</p><p>— Of course, — sighing — he doesn't know how to tell the little ones that he is likely to go to last home, — just not Canterbury, but Kensington, sweet girl, how many times I have to repeat?</p><p>— When will your leg heal, Uncle James? — wrapping herself in a blanket and rubbing her sleepy eyes, gives the voice of Maddie, whose curly hair rests on a fluffed pillow, like an angel's halo.</p><p>— I don’t know, honey, — Griffith replies, fingering her curls in his fingers, — I hope before you go to school. You haven't changed your mind and you still want me to lead you to the first line, and not dad?</p><p>— And Milo says you're going to die, is that true? — suddenly says the elder niece, placing next to the pillow a plush bunny Bell, which James gave her shortly before Maddison was born.</p><p>— Well… Thing about life is.... honey, we’ll all die someday, — feeling as if the mention of Miles — weird, the nieces always called him Uncle Milo — and death betrayed his heart, Jim says, —but it’s not scary at all. It's not really, really scary. "<em>To die is an awfully big adventure</em>", do you remember?</p><p>Despite his admonitions, the girls all start crying early, and Griffith has no choice but to sit between them and, laying the bright heads on his shoulders, sing a lullaby, as he did from the very first day of their birth.</p><p>— Twinkle, twinkle, my star</p><p>I want to know who you are</p><p>You are high above the world</p><p>Like a diamond in the darkness of the night.</p><p>The one who went on the road at night,</p><p>Happy that your light has found</p><p>Would he have lost his way</p><p>If you would not shine on him...</p><p>
  <em>
    <strike>Male us whole...</strike>
  </em>
</p><p>Swaying quietly and stretching out an uncomplicated motive, Jim with a peripheral vision sees that Chloe and his mother are standing behind him, in the doorway, in unison, putting their hands to their chest, and looking at him with tearful eyes — but does not show it.</p><p>When the girls finally fall asleep — and James, the wise with experience, easily identifies this by their relaxed bodies and calm puffing, — Griffith goes into the next room as quietly as possible, which has allocated for him Davey, who is already waiting for him to help him change clothes and take medications ...</p><p>James almost instantly falls into the arms of Morpheus — illness, and a hard day, and medications affect him — and wakes up only early in the morning when he is awakened by the clatter of the little feet of Clem, Maddy and the rest of the kids and their joyful laughter. Alas, he cannot join them immediately, as before, and this makes his heart sore with regret: the last time he celebrated the holy holiday with his family and friends for a very long time ago, impermissibly long time ago, and this Christmas is probably the last in his life, and Griffith decides for himself: it is definitely necessary to spend his  subanniversary with everyone, and to be sure with Clavell — if he'd manage to live it out.</p><p>Slightly sadder than he should Jim wishes Davey, who comes in to carry out his routine duties, a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, hesitating to look him in the eye while he changes the bandage, gives an injection, helps with the loo and clothes — no kidding, what an unbearable <em>fuckery</em> caring for a sick friend instead of sipping an eggnog and unpacking gifts with the beloved one, lying with her in bed or on a bearskin by a lighted fireplace.</p><p>When they come to the living room fragrant with cinnamon, oranges and pine needles, by the window of which there is a low but sprawling Christmas tree decorated with porcelain angels and a gold star, guests and household members of the two-storey Cheriton cottage are already sitting there, drinking mulled wine or honey-mint milk with homemade cookies and rustling with multi-colored wrappers.</p><p>Sitting among truly joyful, happy faces, James feels this grace descending on him, too, and with a quiet smile he carefully unties the ribbons on the presents, wondering if the glass would not crack during transportation (although Holmes did not give his exact address, Griffith sent him a rare Victorian magnifying glass like a letter to Santa Claus — "UK, London, Sherlock Holmes") — what will Sherlock's reaction be when he finds in a stocking over the fireplace a small box in dark blue— a proper match to his brothers' shadow —  paper decorated by hand glued rhinestones that accurately reproduce the six constellations: Gemini, Virgo, Capricorn, Dragon, Corona Borealis, Canis Majoris and Ara.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>January 2010, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Not knowing what to do with an incomprehensible anxiety — once upon a time Mark gave a  wonderful name "procrastinervous" to this feeling — James still decides, while he has the strength, to disassemble all his junk that has been accumulating in the garage for years — nothing interesting, he, of course, is not will find, but surely something that can be sold or given into good hands will turn up under the arm.</p><p>He fiddles with books that have become useless and things that will definitely not be useful to him, remarking with a smirk to himself that this is very reminiscent of Sherlock's Mind Palace when he asked to clean it up, and gradually plunges into fragmentary reflections, examining the material details of which his life consisted <em>before</em>...</p><p>What are the old things really? Towers of some kind of endless pieces of paper that for some reason will live longer than he himself: course works, diaries, dictionaries, newspapers, a collection of his short stories and poems — cannot be thrown away, this is his story, his fucking imperishable manuscripts... All these notebooks with synopses, snippings from magazines, long lost their meaning, the theoretical grammar, the rules of games invented in childhood, algebra, chewing gum comics that they collected together and exchanged with each other, postcards — happy birthday, merry fucking something  — essays, notes from classmates, half-filled notebooks, envelopes with letters from all over the world and unfinished answers to them, some diplomas from school and coteries that he attended until he was fifteen, scattered scraps of unreadable texts, posters, wall newspapers, brochures of the cities he was going to visit, movie advertisements he wanted to go to, key rings, a check from the London Planetarium, "Long-distance Navigation Aids", tickets to "Kills" and "Wolfmother", Mr. Clavell's oscilloscope, outpatient medical record, again abstracts, word formation, Cymraeg, wires, a model of the house that he was going to build near Barafundle Bay, floppy disks, manuals, "The Alphabet of an Amateur Gardener", invitation to the Christmas sales, again letters, drawings, samples, annotations for medicines that no one has been producing for a hundred years, calendars with marked and forgotten dates, puzzles with lost pieces, stickers with characters long gone into oblivion, a broken tin soldier, drawings again, badges, coloring pages, a magnet from Jerusalem, BSL-dictionary from Birmingham —<em> "why did you choose a nightclub?" — "because everybody doesn't hear a shit here" — signs Mark and kisses him again" </em>— lucky tickets and CD inserts, a resume, a portrait of Gagarin with a fake autograph, a German self-study guide, fancy dress glasses and, of course, photographs.</p><p>Sitting down on the rust-colored frame of an old cart, he skims through a heap of images collected in one container in a hurry when they were doing rearrangement in his room: baby James Kimberly in the arms of a young and beautiful mom and dad; the first day of the first year of school; little Jimmy with a tear-stained face and a ragged knee on grandfather's lap; Robert and the rest of his squadron that memorable summer; newly minted Uncle James with newborn Clemens; teenager Jimbo — shaggy, pizza-faced and with a guitar; four boys on a motorcycle — Miles is driving, Bill is holding onto him, and Jim and Davey are sitting in a sidecar and holding a spruce sapling; high school graduation with broken leg and heart; the first trip to Barafundle Bay when they were scouts — this photo once hung on the wall in his room; his first steps; gay club in Birmingham — "<em>I gotta warn you Max, don't have sex with you ex"; </em>Chloe and he are bathing Thomas — then still quite a kitten, skinny and tattered; 5-years-old Jamie riding grandpa's dog; Chloe's wedding; James tap-dancing at White Bull; B-Bay again — already seven together, or here he is with a bandaged neck — a mumps — sits in his father's workshop and plays with a soldering iron while dad in a welding mask conjures over a lawn mower.</p><p>Sighing, Griffith puts the photos back and continues poking around in the last box — so Davey's jew's harp was found, and the soccer ball they used to play in childhood — he'd like to remember the last time he went out with the guys on the field — even Bill's books about the Amazon are right there — it's a pity that he still switched from the cinematography department to the telly department ... under the Scotsman's manuals, at the very bottom, James finds several pairs of tap-dance shoes, a little crumpled and tattered, but with perfectly preserved heels. Curling his lips at the remembered superstition — <em>burn your old shoes to stop the disease </em>— Griffith glares at the friction-polished metal and shudders when Sherlock's voice is heard behind him:</p><p>
  <em>— Didn't know you were a dancer.</em>
</p><p>— Well ... I'm not now, — squeezing out a semblance of a smile, Jim fumbles with his eyes in search of a walking stick — it just was right here ...</p><p>— <em>There is a cane-tap dance after all,</em> — Holmes winks and, holding out the required orthopedic instrument to the twin, narrows his eyes thoughtfully, as if remembering something. Taking one of the shoes, he briefly examines it, and his gaze brightens up: — <em>was that you? Did </em>you<em> dance at the "White Bull"?</em></p><p>Griffith remembers everything at once: the masks of the Dioscuri brothers, the trillo of the violin, which switched from the sad Bach's sonata to the vigorous Celtic motive, and the rhythmic thumping of the soles on the stage hammered out of cedar boards, when he made mind-blowing — despite having drunk three, if not all four beers — pa around a slender musician, spinning to the music or dancing in silence or freezing, letting the melody to solo.</p><p>The detective, taking advantage of Griffith's confusion, takes off his shoes and, slamming the lid of a high container, takes out a violin from nowhere:</p><p><em>— </em><em>Shall we repeat?</em><em> —</em> with a wide smile and showing an even row of pearl, milk teeth, Sherlock removes the curly strand that reaches into his eyes and begins to move his bow along the strings, instantly filling the garage with a joyful and so familiar Irish melody.</p><p>— C'mon,  you know I can't, — Jim refuses — well, really, what kind of dancer is he <em>now</em>, but Holmes, who plays the violin, looks at him sternly and categorically, and Griffith, sighing, barely changes his shoes and begins uncertainly, with extreme caution, hitting tap dance, leaning on his stick and acting more hands rather than feet, like Ray Bolger in his famous "Old Soft Boot". Sherlock, who abruptly stopped playing against his own rules, takes off his shoes on Griffith, diligently not touching — well, perhaps, in addition to sociopathy, he also has haptophobia in his pocket — and, putting boots on his twin's hands, takes up the violin again.</p><p>A little taken aback by such an intimate and unceremonious gesture, James does not immediately come to his senses, but purely automatically begins to create a rhythmic pattern, and the familiar sounds of beating on boards plunges him into the past, happy and healthy, and from the combination of music and energetic tapping in his soul it becomes easy,<em> unbearably easy.</em></p><p>
  <strong>January 2010, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>James is a little upset — he thought that it would be enough just to mentally "let" Moriarty into Sherlock's dreams — and the job is done, but no, this is too little, and decides to try a little differently, namely, to crank up something like a lucid dream, just not in a cluttered apartment on Baker Street, and in their Halls of Mind.</p><p>On the night of January 5th to 6th — exactly on the detective's birthday — Griffith, wishing Davey good night, stretches out on the bed and, closing his eyes, begins to mentally recreate the "scene" with which he chooses Barafundle Bay - the most beautiful place on earth is ideal for this goal, and James wants to believe that Holmes will share his love for the bay, and they would have something in common other than looks and grief.</p><p><em>— </em><em>This is an absolutely stupid idea,</em> — Sherlock grumbles, standing next to a cliff dotted with clams of clams, — <em>why did you bring me here?</em></p><p>— Oh, wow, the genius of private investigation and the bachelor of deduction is lost in conjecture, — James grins, diligently imagining the appearance of Moriarty; the most difficult thing for him is precisely to deliver the villain-consultant to the bay, and the rest, in theory, should go by itself, — have you ever thought that Moriarty did not die, but simply forgot which stop he should get off at?</p><p>
  <em>— What…</em>
</p><p>When the air is shaken by the rotating blades of the helicopter in which Jim is, Sherlock twitches and looks suspiciously at the sky at the rapidly approaching black dot.</p><p>— Happy Birthday, Sherlock, — Griffith smiles and walks briskly — it's a pity that he can walk normally only in his sleep, and even then not always — in the opposite side of the bay, so as not to interfere with these two, and sits down on a stone heated by the sun, stretching legs and hiding his hands in the pockets of his jacket.</p><p>— Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? — jumping off the skid and pulling out the headphones, the Irishman grins.</p><p>— How can you be alive? — frozen to the spot, quietly, almost in a whisper, asks Sherlock — strange, he himself told James so many times that he hears Jim, why would he now ask such stupid questions?</p><p><em>—</em><em> Easy-peasy,</em> — Moriarty replies, lazily rolling gum in his mouth, swaying from foot to foot and checking the phone instead of rushing to Holmes and hugging him at full speed — at least, Griffith believed that tactile contact was not alien to them, —<em> I didn't commit suicide.</em></p><p>
  <em>— I saw with my eyes that you blew your own brains out, how could you survive?</em>
</p><p>Jamie cringes awkwardly — what is happening is more reminiscent of not a dream, but a cheap farce with mediocre actors.</p><p><em>— And I say — no, — </em>the villain—consultant grins and shakes his head in the direction of Griffith, — <em>this man — for sure, you — maybe, and I — definitely </em>no<em>.</em></p><p><em>— You shook my hand, wished me a good luck and shot yourself </em>right in your fucking head<em>, you lay in a pool of your own blood,</em> — Sherlock insists.</p><p>Holmes and Jim's voices subside when their communication shifts from verbal to visual — really, wouldn't two adults who share a common past just stand and look at each other? Moriarty has his back to him, so that Jamie sees only the detective, whose face, speckled with something mute and sad, suddenly lights up with such a happy smile that it becomes uncomfortable when the Irishman finally comes towards him.</p><p><em>— There are twenty-nine steps between us, Sherlock,</em> —  Jim says, taking off his leather gloves and stretching out his hands to Holmes, — <em>and I’ll take exactly fifteen steps forward and not one step more.</em></p><p>
  <em>— I do not…</em>
</p><p><em>—You should have done at least one, — the consultant villain shakes his head, — at least you </em>could<em>.</em></p><p>
  <strong>January 2010, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong>
</p><p>James sighs in relief, looking back at the apple tree tied with ribbons from Christmas gifts, on the branches of which several apples still hang — Sherlock hasn't made himself known for two weeks, which means that Griffith managed to connect this strange couple separated by the death of the genius of the underworld, and now a detective indulges in sweet pastimes with a loved one somewhere in the backyard of his Mind Palace, so that, getting up from the bench and seeing Holmes lying in the snow and making a snow angel — for some reason with devil horns — looking at the sky with aloof, the young man freezes in surprise.</p><p>— I swear by the moon, I know your curly profile until it hurts my ass, — James, recovering from shock, grins, for some reason recollecting Shakespeare's syllable.</p><p>Holmes, startling, slowly raises his head and looks at Griffith with eyes full of unshed tears — the edge of moisture evenly divides the pupil into two parts — and as soon as he blinks, a transparent drop pours out onto his eyelashes and runs down his chin, outlining his cheekbone, and looking at this, James realizes how different he and the detective are, although they share the same face — unusual eyes with a brown speck on the iris, a long thin nose, bizarrely contoured lips — but no one will ever recognize Holmes in Griffith, and Griffith in Holmes...</p><p>— Sherlock, what happened?</p><p><em>— Just look at me, Jamie. I'm </em>confused, <em>— </em> Holmes wheezes harshly, pulling a flask out of his coat pocket, takes a couple of fearful sips and sighs longly, looking at the vessel dancing from trembling in his fingers, <em>— see? My body's betraying me.</em></p><p>— What's up with your voice? — asks Jim, but, without waiting, sits down closer to the detective and says as friendly as possible, — you — and being <em>confused</em>? Mrs. Holmes, I think I broke your boy.</p><p>Sherlock, grinning sadly, shakes his head, but does not utter a word, and Griffith understands: his idea went sideways, making the double only worse, as if the fact that he could "live" to see a loved one only opened up an old wound.</p><p><em>— </em><em>The dreams were just dreams</em> before, <em>kind of the way to find forgotten memories, and not a single…</em> <em>—</em> Holmes purses his lips and frowns, looking somewhere through James.</p><p><em>— </em>Dreams never dream just like that, don’t you know, Sherlock? — approaching the twin and reaching out to him to help get to his feet, says Jim, — you just miss him. This is normal.</p><p><em>— And you are dying, so what?</em> — ignoring Griffith's gesture, the detective throws his head back again, from which the dark chocolate curls are beautifully scattered over the snow blanket.</p><p>— You're definitely worse off, Sherlock... Did he even say he loves you?</p><p>
  <em>— </em>
  <em>Oh, Jamie, Jamie, you don’t understand anything about the chemistry of love.</em>
</p><p>— Love is not chemistry, but a gift to give yourself to another living being. So did he?</p><p>Sherlock twitches his shoulder in annoyance, making it clear that the conversation is unpleasant for him, but there is something in him ... as if he really grieves about these words that Moriarty didn’t say:</p><p>
  <em>— No, he didn't.</em>
</p><p>Griffith desperately wants to somehow calm him down, give him hope or something, although he is a little jealous — although what is the point of being jealous of a person who is no one to you, and, sighing and collecting his thoughts, says:</p><p>— Does the Earth tell to the Sun "I'm spinning", Sherlock?</p><p><em>— Um ...  I guess no,</em> — the double looks at him in surprise — always calculating every step of James at lightning speed, not making chains, and jumping from the first link immediately to the last, he obviously did not expect such a question.</p><p>— But it <em>spins</em>, — Griffith smiles affectionately and even reaches out to lightly pat the detective on the shoulder, but recalls that he does not tolerate being touched by strangers — otherwise he would have touched him himself long ago — but that doesn't matter: Holmes's relaxed pose speaks much more than a thousand touches.</p><p>Pulling off his scarf, the drunkenly swaying detective throws his head back — perhaps — most likely — to keep the tears from running down his cheeks — and James sees a bright red, shimmering blue stripe on his neck.</p><p>— Sherlock, your throat ...</p><p>
  <em>— What's my throat? Let's get a bottle of brandy, Sherrie, and wander around Kensington Gardens, singing loudly until we wake Captain Hook ...</em>
</p><p><em>—</em> Isn't Sherrinford dead?</p><p><em>— I would like to believe he's not, —</em> the detective shrugs his shoulders twitchingly and quickly wipes his eyes, <em>— once — not long before Sherrie said about the disease — we would talk about being old, being in our 50s together, there was something </em>gorgeous <em>about us three being old </em>together. <em>But now I am whole alone, and more than ever I wish I could talk to him...</em></p><p><em>—</em> So why do you want to awaken memories of Moriarty but not your brother?</p><p>Sherlock looks at James and looks both offended and surprised; thoughtfully rubbing his unshaven chin, he draws air into his chest to say something, but abruptly gets up and leaves — and behind the slammed door in the corridor, a heartbreaking cough is heard, pain radiating into the lungs of Griffith himself.</p><p>
  <strong>February 2010, Haverfordwest — London train.</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>... The tumor focus is over ten centimeters ...</em>
</p><p>James rides, leaning his forehead against the cold glass instantly fogging from the warmth of his skin and breath, and anxiously looks at a school of some birds flying in a faceless, like a foggy sky — it seems that these are nightjars — too far to see, and he is not particularly versed in ornithology, and it is not because of this that the heart painfully misses a couple of beats: the contemplation of a birdie, which is more and more lagging behind its relatives, either weakened from flight, or simply sick, gives him anxiety.</p><p>
  <em>... The necessary meds are not available here, we will send you to London, Mr. Griffith ...</em>
</p><p>When the train leaves the tunnel, the birds are no longer visible, and James, sighing quietly, makes himself comfortable and mindlessly slides his pupils across the virgin—smoothly snow—covered fields, one after another switching tracks in the player in search of a melody that would suit the mood, but so it finds nothing — neither Richter, nor Wagner, nor Guðnadóttir, nor even Holland are suitable — and simply includes sound recordings of space made by NASA.</p><p>
  <em>... Alas, complete surgical removal is not possible, I'm sorry ...</em>
</p><p>However,  winter is  although the most beautiful, but at the same time the most deceitful, like some stupid beauty contest season: all the dirt, all imperfections are covered with a burial shroud of changeable crystals of frozen water, as if the sky becomes disgusting to look at the gray expanses , and it brings the clouds down, shielding itself from the dull look of dead nature.</p><p>
  <em>... Malignant cells in nearby lymphatic nodes ...</em>
</p><p>In the same way, his disease — the tongue stubbornly refuses to say "cancer" —  hides under the skin, pretending to be asleep, while it itself is almost imperceptible, cell by cell, through the muscles and blood vessels with a tick gnaws its way deeper and deeper, to the veins, to the very bone itself.</p><p>
  <em>... Bone metastases ...</em>
</p><p>Who will console him now? Where he can find Oz the Great and Powerful, that will instill fearlessness in the soul and courage in the heart? Who will unclench the arms crossed on his chest with a stranglehold? Who will share the horror and ease the pain?</p><p>
  <em>
    <strike>Make us whole.</strike>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>February 2010, London, hospital. St. Bartholomew.</strong>
</p><p>— So that's what I'm gonna tell you, lad, — mutters a grandfather with prostate cancer, hanging from the next bed, — all this is fucking bullshit.</p><p>— I beg your pardon, Mr. Lawrence? — James takes out his earpiece and turns to his interlocutor, a stout old man with a spade beard, smelling of cheap tobacco.</p><p>— I say, all this is fucking bullshit, — the grandfather repeats, — that's what you got?</p><p> </p><p>— Alveolar rhabdomyosarcoma of... — Griffith does not even have time to fully pronounce the diagnosis, as the grandfather whistles:</p><p>— Wow! Then — the more so bullshit! The longer the title, the worse the prospects are, lad. See, first, all your hair falls out. Then your balls are gonna shrink. And then to make matters worse, your  dick becomes a constant source of disappointment. How old are you?</p><p>— Twenty-eight, — realizing that the neighbor will not lag behind and will not switch to another patient — there are only two of them in the ward, — Jamie turns off the tablet and puts it on charge, — like live bright, die young.</p><p>— Doubtful slogan, lad. I’m almost eighty, and I’ll die surrounded by my fucking close relatives. They will say to me — they will say, "grandpa, please don't go away," and I will tell 'em, "I'm three hundred years old at lunchtime, sciatica, sclerosis, hemorrhoids, I'm lying down and farting, I have no teeth and haven't fucked for half a century, so go fuck yourself, my darlings, I'd rather die," — Mr. Lawrence shakes his head, — is there a point in living if a dick doesn't raise and balls are empty or you can't stomach alcohol?</p><p>— Well ... the absence of personal belongings is not a reason of depriving a lady of pleasure, — smiling, Griffith Norton quotes, — at least that's what my friend says.</p><p>— Your friend is as green as grass twat, lad, — the old man replies, grunting, and sits down, rubbing his back, — you gotta know one simple thing: the cunt is something till death while the dick is something till old age, — having satisfied his curiosity and desire to communicate, he leaves the room, shuffling with slippers on polished tiles.</p><p>Tired of pulling the blanket over his chilled shoulders, Jim turns onto his healthy side and looks sleepily at the bedside table, where there is a glass vial with his last pills of the day; in the hospital, in principle, it is not so bad, but because of the drugs that they give here, he wants to sleep all the time — apparently, the pain syndrome is not particularly relieved by those painkillers that the state hospital can afford, and he is stupidly stuffed with sleeping pills.</p><p>Lulled by the ensuing silence — the endless grunting, smacking and periodic gas attacks of Mr. Lawrence unnerved him, despite the sedatives — Griffith indulges in a light sleep, and even sees something like a dream: here he is sitting on the beach of Barafundle Bay, small and pale, wrapped in his hiking gray blanket, almost lonely — a dark figure stands a couple of feet away, with his back to him ...</p><p><em>— Look at this,</em> — the springs of the bed squeak under the weight of Sherlock, who is sitting next to James, and jabbing a fairly tattered notebook with some complicated scheme under his nose, — <em>there are three gods: A, B and C, who are the gods of truth, lie and chance in no particular order. The God of truth always speaks the truth, lies always deceives, and chance can speak both the truth and lies in an arbitrary order. It is required to identify the gods by asking 3 questions, which can be answered "yes" or "no". Only one god is asked each question. The gods understand the language, but they answer in their own language, in which there are 2 words "da" and "ja", and it is not known which word means "yes" and which "no".</em></p><p>— Huh? — opening his eyes and raising his head with difficulty, Jim blinks dazedly.</p><p>
  <em>— To simplify: firstly, you can ask one god more than one question — and not ask the others at all, secondly, what the next question will be and to whom it will be asked may depend on the answer to the previous one, thirdly, the God of chance answers, tossing a coin, fourthly, you can't set the parado ...</em>
</p><p>— Stop, — finally waking up, asks Griffith, trying to collect the sprawling thoughts in a heap and focus on the heresy that Sherlock carries, — what the fuck are you talking about?</p><p><em>— About Light and Wisdom, obviously —</em> the detective approaches his twin almost close, and Jim sees how feverishly his slightly dilated pupils tremble, — <em>well</em>, — not noticing anything around, Holmes continues to broadcast about the riddle, — <em>it seems to me that here you need to use complex logical problems in the question itself, for example: “does“ da ”mean“ yes ”if and only if you are the god of truth, and god B is the god of chance?”, or ...</em></p><p>— How about this question: "Is the number of true statements an odd number: John no longer eats shit out my hands, Moriarty does not listen through the door, and that's why you decided to come with this nonsense to me?"</p><p><em>— Not bad,</em> —  Sherlock smiles with a mixture of surprise and respect, — <em>I didn't expect it from</em> you.</p><p>— Well, if I've managed shut up the stream of meaningless crap from your goddamn mouth, then it's not all that lousy, — leaning back on the pillow, Griffith closes his eyelids and exhales, feeling the phlegm rattling in his lungs, — I thought I wouldn't have enough brains for anything normal ...</p><p><em>— Brilliant!</em> — Sherlock claps his hands and, glancing at the crooked graph, chatters with renewed vigor, — <em>we turn to God B: “If I ask you“ God A is a god of chance? ”, You will answer“ ja ”?" If God B answers "ja", then either he is a god of chance, answering at random, or he is not a god of chance, but in fact ...</em></p><p>— Je-e-esus fucking Christ, — Jim rolls his eyes, — don't spoil the moment: I just believed in myself ...</p><p>
  <em>— ... god A is the god of chance. In any case, god C is not a god of chance ... Aren't you interested in the solution?</em>
</p><p>— If I remembered where you started, then perhaps it would be interesting. I want to sleep much more than know the answer.</p><p><em>— It's because they pump tranquilizers into you in liters so that you sleep all the time, </em>— Sherlock grumbles, hiding the notebook in his coat pocket, —<em>do you really think I am not able to distinguish between medication weakness and usual?</em></p><p>— Oh, hell! What does that matter? — James waves his hands, trying not to send Holmes far, far away, — let me be alone, otherwise now everything will go away, and no one will give me a new pill.</p><p>
  <em>— It is quite possible that one will go around the bend from the loneliness.</em>
</p><p>— And this is what the autistic sociopath is telling me? —  Griffith snorts, — didn't you say that sentiment is a dangerous flaw and all that?</p><p><em>— </em><em>Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however impossible, must be true,</em> — Sherlock thoughtfully runs a hand through his hair, looking at Mr. Lawrence’s empty bunk.</p><p>— I'm sorry?</p><p>
  <em>— I say that sentiment is not alien to me.</em>
</p><p>— But they scare you, — leaning on his elbow, Griffith turns slightly to Holmes, so that it is more convenient to look at the play of emotions on the face of this strange man, — being sentimental doesn't fits you. Not even once.</p><p><em>— And you don't fit being high, but I'm silent about it, —</em> the detective pouts his lips resentfully, shuffling his feet on the clean floor.</p><p>— Not like you, by the way, — James sarcastically, resigned to the fact that the devil with two annoying double will give him a rest.</p><p><em>— For God's sake, Jamie! What can be worse than total loneliness, when there is no one to talk to?</em> —Sherlock unties his scarf and wipes sweat on his forehead with it, —  <em>especially for a man. You need, you </em>need <em>a close person — to whisper at night, get nervous together, and then smoke in your shorts, standing at the open window.</em></p><p>— Do you… uh… wanna talk about it?</p><p>An incomprehensible grimace appears on Holmes's face, and he sighs and scratches his forearm in irritation.</p><p>— So my theory is correct, — Griffith returns the detective to his sharpness, feeling the pain slowly begin to spread through the veins, biting the walls of the vessels.</p><p><em>— </em><em>Probably,</em> — Sherlock answers hesitantly, taking off his coat and furiously combing his hand.</p><p>— Well, off you pop.</p><p>And the detective speaks, and speaks so long that James seems to have time to fall asleep and wake up, as if the detective's honey baritone soothes not only the nerves, but also the stabbing aches that twist the muscles. Sherlock, hunched over and twirling a torn—off button in his hands, conducts a funeral monologue of a very lonely and lost man who drove himself into a corner to escape from the problem — the last problem — talking about cases related to Moriarty, uncovered and unsolved, successful and not very ... How James read Peter Pan to the girls so Holmes tells, like a fairy tale, as if "once-upon-a-time", simply and firmly, sometimes — proudly boasting, sometimes — with sadness and sultry, grieving tenderness, at first glance inappropriate — as it is possible with a wandering, bitter smile to talk about an exploded old woman? And what tender can there be in children whom some maniac poisoned with mercury in an abandoned factory? But still, James sees sincerity in this stream of words — perhaps Sherlock is being honest with him because Griffith is dying. And who else can speak frankly about a painful thing, if not a living corpse?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. XI. Ne noceas, si juvare non potes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>— Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!</p><p>— I shrieked, upstarting, —</p><p>Get thee back into the tempest and the</p><p>Night’s Plutonian shore!</p><p>    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!</p><p>    Leave my loneliness unbroken!</p><p>— quit the bust above my door!</p><p>Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!</p><p>            Quoth the Raven:</p><p>— Nevermore.</p><p>E. A. Poe — "Raven".</p><p> </p>
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<p><strong>March 2010, Pembrokeshire, Handleton.</strong></p>

<p>— Fifteen percent tramadol solution, a box of buprenprofin and a bottle of morphine, please, — having survived in a monstrously tedious queue, James holds out a prescription form through the window and is already preparing to take out a wallet when the new pharmacist — a rather pretty Arab woman — presses her plump lips and curls a carefully drawn eyebrow:</p>

<p>— Firstly, your prescription is  filled incorrectly, and secondly, you cannot indicate several medicines in one document.</p>

<p>— Actually, I <em>can</em>, — wearily — and at the same time relieved: he still managed to perfectly copy the doctor's handwriting and write morphine into the prescription form — he sighs, — and it was filled out correctly, with all the seals needed, the doctor from Bosherston have prescribed this medicines, and two weeks ago I took 'em in the same pharmacy and there were no complaints here.</p>

<p>— So they should have taken the form from you then!</p>

<p>— No, according to the rules, you can only write the date on the back and point the number of drugs dispensed, — with difficulty restraining himself, Griffith answers as calmly as possible — his fingers clench themselves into a fist, and he has to unclench them with his other hand.</p>

<p>— Are you a pharmacist? — frowning, says the saleswoman, — very unlikely that you are.</p>

<p>— Listen, lady, the drug order is actual, it is not a photocopy nor a fake, what's the problem then? Do I have to call my attending physician to tell you?</p>

<p>— Well-well, you will call your friend, I know how you — addicts — do it.</p>

<p>Exhaling and grabbing a cane — there is no point or desire to bicker with this N-word cunt — and mentally wishing the bitch the most disgusting buyers that can be, Griffith snatches the prescription from the girl's hands and goes out into the street, simultaneously ordering a taxi to Pembroke: Stackpole is like Handleton, Maidenwells , Saint-Twinnels and Saint-Petrox — a tiny town with only one pharmacy, and in all of them they already refuse to sell medicines to him that will be needed tomorrow; stealing those that are at home will not work, since Norton will immediately detect the slightest leak.</p>

<p>Leaning his shoulder against the stone wall, Jim smokes while waiting for the driver — what a beautiful and rainy St. David's Day — and, dropping the call from his father, scribbles him an SMS that he will be home from Cardiff by the time the parade is broadcast.</p>

<p>— Why the hell are normal people supposed to go gallivanting on the seven seas and go around all the drugstores in the county because of  some fucking needle freaks? A drug addict will always find something to relax, but I can't synthesize a medicine for myself from cough syrup and paracetamol.</p>

<p>The driver — another representative of the non-Caucasian genotype who turned off ethnic melodies just out of politeness — shrugs his shoulders, not really wanting to continue such a conversation, but the inflamed James is unstoppable:</p>

<p>— For fuck's sake, let's say I urgently need to take naloxone — in case if I start suffocating — but there is no drug order at hand, so what, am I supposed to just die now? I pay taxes that go to help junkies, who are already protected from everything they can — and they still kill themselves — in order to spend hours buying life-saving drugs, which I earned myself by sweat of my brow? Is this normal at all?!</p>

<p>— Lad, I have no response for that, — gotten gray, jockey steps on the juice in order to take the raging client to the address as quick as possible.</p>

<p>— So have I! What kind of system is this, — Griffith  goes through the roof, getting more and more infuriated, — you need to get a one-time prescription — such a document with a special seal, which lies in a special room with such a degree of protection that the Bank of London is not a patch on, the key in a single copy belongs to the head nurse, who is absolutely not obliged to be at the workplace until seven, and if the patient comes for this piece of paper at six, then he is told, they say, not today. In the best case, you can to contact the doctor on duty, he leaves an entry in the prescription journal, get confirmation, add the route of prescribing drugs to the medical record, draw up a procedural sheet, enter into the actual schedule of medications ... And people like me just sit at the office, ready to bloody <em>die</em> in pain!</p>
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<p><strong>March 2010, Pembrokeshire, Pembroke.</strong></p>

<p>— Good afternoon, — hearing the bell of the front door, the girl already familiar to James looks up and, recognizing him, smiles warmly, — oh, hello, dear!</p>

<p>— Hello there, Shan, — Griffith crumples awkwardly, running his hand over his neck, — happy holiday.</p>

<p>— Same to you, — the pharmacist nods and, folding his palms on the counter, waits with polite patience for what the visitor will order.</p>

<p>— I ... er... is <em>mine</em> in stock? — just in case, having fished out the recipe from the pocket of his jacket, he comes closer to the window.</p>

<p>—  For some reason they have not sent meds to the place of residence for the third month, I don't know why they make people to drive for nothing, — having paid attention to the piece of paper a little more than three seconds, Shan turns away and indignantly rattles boxes and cabinets, — do you need <em>everything</em> from your list, James?</p>

<p>— Be so kind, love. But... er... three or four morphine, if there is.</p>

<p>— For you — sure. Maybe I will double the rest? Well, so you don't run back and forth so often...</p>

<p>— No, thanks, consider me as a compulsive buyer, — Jamie winks, — and don’t take away the pleasure of chatting with such a beautiful girl.</p>

<p>Having blushed, the pharmacist embarrassedly bites her plump lower lip — with this side of her face she looks like Sarah Paulson — and, with a thieving glance, scans some coupon — and  the purchase price immediately drops by ten pounds.</p>

<p>— Shan, — with wide eyes, Griffith bends down to the issuing window and quietly, as if afraid that they will be heard, says, —won't you have any problems because of <em>this</em>? I would not like you to be fired or fined.</p>

<p>— Don’t worry about me, — the girl looks at him radiantly and slyly, and holds out a bag of medicines and change, — Happy Holiday again. Have a nice day, James, and keep well, you owe me a date.</p>

<p>Saying goodbye to the pharmacist, Griffith returns to the taxi and, angrily — his good mood is somehow abruptly replaced by anger at Shan, who took pity on him by making a discount — plopping down on the back seat, does not fully open the backpack and looks into a plastic bag, from where five identical bottles and four multi-colored boxes for pain, three drugs for a tumor, two vials for sedation and three packs so as not to die from previous drugs are looking at him. Fucking awesome. Just  fucking awesome.</p>
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<p><strong>March 2010, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong></p>

<p>— Jimmy, hello, — affectionately kissed her brother on the forehead, Chloe, who was a little late for the festive dinner — again without Mike, only with the girls — sits down on the next chair, — how are you feeling?</p>

<p>— Feelin' ready to lie down and die, sis, — Jim sighs, poking around in a soup of lamb, onion and potatoes without much enthusiasm behind the annoying sound of fanfare pouring from the TV, —for some reason this year's parade is painfully dull.</p>

<p>— Won't you go to church?</p>

<p>— No, — Ned and that preacher maniac shouting at each other in a support group appear before his eyes, — firstly, God is a ludicrous fiction dreamt up by inadequates who abnegate all responsibility to an invisible magic friend, and secondly — spiritual pastors are needed by spiritual sheep, but I don't consider myself a live-stock, and if I have to believe in something anyway, I would choose some of dead religions. In Jupiter, for example, — from the mere sight of curled eggs on "rabbits" appetite disappears completely, and Griffith puts the cutlery on a plate and, putting his elbows on the tablecloth, dejectedly rests his face on his palms, — maybe they are a little naive — these ancient beliefs, I mean — but on the other hand, there is not a single priest left in the world who could lecture me on with his truths and teach me how to live my goddamn live. Okay, I'd better go.</p>

<p>— Do you need my hand?</p>

<p>— I don't give a fuck, — James throws emotionlessly, grabs the stick set to the table and heads for the stairs.</p>

<p>— Since when did you become a fighter against Christianity? — taking her brother by the arm, Evans asks as they climb along the wall hung with multifarious photographs — weddings, colleges, family gatherings; at the very top, next to the door to his room, right after a large collage with black and white clippings depicting all family members, there are three images, located one below the other:  Fantastic Four of theirs  and Katie in Barafundle Bay in the 2002 , Griffith , Milo and Chloe next to a living statue in London, Jim and Mark in Birmingham hugging against the backdrop of a Christmas tree on the street ...</p>

<p>— I am not a fighter against religion as such, and I respect all believers from Christians to Nuwaubians and Pastafarians, Chlo, — collapsing tiredly on the bed, he puts his right leg on a support to bend his ailing side and reduce the tension of the howling from stretching rags muscles, — but if anything is imposed on <em>me</em>, I have every right to tell <em>anyone </em>to fuck off regardless of whether they are flogging me a vacuum cleaner or salvation.</p>

<p>— Well, on the one hand, you are right, — lightly touching Jim's hand,  sister simultaneously straightens a copper-red glinting in the sun curl that has got out of her hair, — but it's not for nothing that Christianity is in the first place all over the world.</p>

<p>— Oh yes, millions of flies cannot be wrong. Let's not talk about it.</p>

<p>— Okay, — Chloe sighs and, scratching her nose — a sure sign that she is angry, — you have turned pale ... Are you all right?</p>

<p>— I'm fine. Can I just lie there alone?</p>
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<p><strong>March 2010, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong></p>

<p>James, yelling silently and cursing a dank March coupled with a weakened — or rather absent, if not negative — by chemotherapy immunity, blows his nose and throws into the wastebasket next to the bed another paper handkerchief, stained with nasal mucus mixed with dry crusts of the epithelium, and lies on his side, buried in a pile of blankets — he had to get out into the street once in a few weeks as he immediately caught a cold and lying without getting up  all day long, as in an upright position to endless pain in the leg, exhausting temperature, sore throat, cough and a runny nose is immediately joined by nausea and dizziness, close to fainting.</p>

<p>Pulling his unnaturally thin, pale and trembling left hand out of his nest made of blankets, Griffith fumbles on the bedside table full of drugs first a nasal spray with eucalyptus, and then a bottle of morphine, so familiar to the touch that he does not even need to raise his head to not to be mistaken. Taking a small bottle with two fingers like a cigarette — oh how he wishes to smoke now —  Jim unscrews the cap, takes a few sips, feeling glad that he does not feel the bitterness of the medicine because of a cold and, returning the meds to its place, crawls in bed trying to warm up and lie down so that the blankets do not bother the ulcer on the thigh, which is sensitive even through layers of protective film, bandages and pajama pants, until the painful sensations surrender under the pain-killer, and he finally relaxed, being settled down by thoughts of his own importance and worthlessness.</p>

<p>For some reason, remembering Laura and Martha Sissons — the woman from the church at the cancer support group meetings — James grabs a notebook and, licking a pencil, begins to scribble on the pages:</p>

<p><em>"Sarah somehow resembled the skeleton of Monica Bellucci, who was forced to pretend that it was happy with life. Such a lovely lil' skeleton, scurrying through the halls and galleries of his own insides, completely eaten away by cancer: here </em>—<em> lobar pneumonia, similar to moldy black bread, there </em>—<em> the spleen swollen to the size of the liver, and the shuddering vessels with a roaring siren announce the alarm: death will come in twenty-nine, twenty-eight ...</em></p>

<p><em>Early in the morning, even before sunrise, she climbs like a black-and-brown cocoon-moth over the bumps of abscesses and ruts of necrosis, when the command to launch reverse peristalsis rumbles overhead: twenty-three, twenty-two ... Burns from radiation therapy </em>—<em> like graffiti in the gateways of Nottingham, liquid from the failing kidneys </em>—<em> like sewage in which Sarah got stuck knee-deep, rippling from the vibrations emitted by the alarm: nineteen, eighteen...</em></p>

<p>After rereading the text, Jim feels that something is wrong, and enters part of the text into the search engine, and is indignant that this is not his idea, but a copy of the Palahniuks' "Fight club", whose secondary heroine, ironically, is named Chloe, and in a rage erases the file from computer.</p>
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<p><strong>March 2010, Pembrokeshire, Bosherston.</strong></p>

<p> — So, Mr. Griffith, — from the mere sight of the doctor James understands that he will not hear anything good now — he knows very well even without terms and diagnoses that things are bad,  thanks to his eloquent state of health — but he still gets nervous and tears sheets of paper into thin strips, twists them into sticks and crumples in his hands — judging by the pictures, the tumor has metastasized to the prostate, liver and ...</p>

<p>— I see.</p>

<p>— I'm afraid the treatment had no effect ...</p>

<p>— Okay, fuck it — I mean a stump — cut it to the very throat if it helps, — swallowing, Jim chops off, — I'm ready for anything.</p>

<p>— Mr. Griffith, there's no reason in amputaion, you already have metastases wherever is possible. We put you on morphine. I'm <em>really sorry</em>.</p>

<p>He don't have to listen further, and Griffith without looking up asks the question "how much?" again. But this time it's not about money.</p>

<p>The oncologist's answer spins in his head like a record all the way home, not missing the chatter trying to distract him from the gloomy thoughts of Davey, and it seems that there is only one thought, but it, like a "snake" game, devours itself and grows, grows, grows...</p>

<p>— Get the fuck out of the car, — Jim says, staring blankly at the windshield. Right now, he needs to call Sherlock, and it is much easier to kick Norton out than to leave the salon himself.</p>

<p> — What? — having pulled over to the side of the road, Davey turns his head in his direction without understanding, — this is <em>my </em>car.</p>

<p>— Get! The! Fuck! Out! Of! The! GODDAMN <em>FUCKING CAR</em>!!! — Griffith explodes, accompanying every word with a weak — too tired to hit harder — with a blow, hitting either the ear or the shoulder, and with trembling hands dials Holmes' number: for some reason he does not save, but James remembers it by heart as “Lord's Prayer" or the coordinates of some stars — 44-7544-680-989. The beeps, unusually lingering, hurt the ear — strange, Sherlock himself said that he would be waiting for the call — and, hearing a familiar voice, James begins to say hello when he realizes that the words are not addressed to him and in general the double hung up.</p>

<p>Despair and resentment fill him like seawater, the lungs of a drowned man, and all twenty-eight years of worthless life, two years of unsuccessful struggle with cancer and four months of unrequited love come out when he screams at the top of his lungs, breaking his voice and thrashing randomly on the dashboard "Ford" in front of Davey, frozen outside the car window.</p>
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<p><strong>March 2010, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong></p>

<p><em>… “Which "Land rover discovery"  is now out, the third or the fourth? Has your regular bathroom radio already been replaced with a touch  mp3-player with fragrance? What will the iPhone-5 be like? Are there any discounts for tourists in space?</em></p>

<p><em>Yes, sonny boy, you didn't misheard. Now not scientists and astronauts fly into space, but tourists. The very ones on the fourth Land Rover, with  golden toilet brushes, iPhones and silicone women with inlaid crystals "swarovsky" eyes. All science has fallen to the knee-elbow pose to meet the needs of overfucked vaginas and bottomless stomachs. Just imagine — three thousand years of war, suffering and development, in order to eventually download photos of cats and showing off the luxury belongings.</em></p>

<p><em>There are beauty universities instead of engineering colleges, and search teams are looking for not missing travelers, but G-spots. Instead of NASA, there are Research Institute of tampons and toilet paper, so that it has hundred layers and  "Chanel No. 5" fragrance. Leading experts are not looking for a cure for infertility or cerebral palcy, but boiling an anti-wrinkle cream based on the placenta in laboratories. I no longer ask where the justice is. I ask only, where is the logic?" </em></p>

<p>Snorting, James straightens his reading pillow, crunches his knuckles and, stretching out and taking a quick sip of the tea that has cooled down for a long time, continues to pound on the keyboard of a laptop placed on a folding breakfast table: cancer does not take inspiration — self-esteem seems to be tastier — it is devoured by pills, leaving in the head bad erosion, but now his mind is clear and free, and words are rushing from his head to his fingers, and from fingers to the screen. He, of course, is unlikely to ever publish this misunderstanding, but he needs to speak out, even if no one reads it.</p>

<p><em>... “The XXI century, for fuck's sake,  there is wi-fi all around, the technologies of plastic surgery brought to perfection and the conquered Everest, and scientists cannot conquer AIDS, cancer and a bunch of other deadly diseases — not even that they“ cannot ”, but simply </em>do not want<em> : not profitable. I will burn all my "New Scientist" and "Phil.Trans." , sonny boy — because these collections of ancestors' fantasies about tomorrow never come true: fuck you, humanity, there will be no  time machine, a cure for all ailments and warp-cores in galactic starships. Instead, take the phone without buttons, arse-scratcher, diamond cumbrella and pills to keep you from getting fat. Eat for your good health, glue yourself with menstrual pad, smear snail slime cream on your face and count likes in social networks.</em></p>

<p><em>It's like we've forgotten who we are — explorers, pioneers ... Every day something new appears — but all these gadgets are aimed not at developing the mind, but at its degradation. At greed. A person wants everything at once: a tablet, a car, money, lose weight, a phone — thousands of desires, while a sick person wants only one thing — to get well. But what is left for him when there is no more hope? Just the taste of sand, in which others hide their heads, and watching how every day with the sunset takes with it not only light, but also time — as if a dying person walks, breathes, exists on credit, where the hours of his life are — an incredibly high percentage that cannot be paid.</em></p>

<p><em>When I imagine the medicine of the future in the culture of consumwhorism, I see it this way: instead of inventing drugs, a hopelessly patient is sent to the past, and there, in the past, they are forced to go to the clinic in proper time."</em></p>

<p>The story is almost ready when his lower abdomen seems to be scorching with hot breath, and James feels the inner side of his thighs warm up and immediately begins to cool unpleasantly, and there is an eloquent tapping of droplets falling to the floor, flowing down the waterproof diaper. Damn, why the hell he sometimes can't squeeze out a drop, and sometimes he doesn't even feel the urge to urinate?</p>

<p>— FUCK! — he throws the laptop away and hides his face in his hands, trying not to cry like a little girl — shit, <em>shit</em>, when the hell will it finally end?</p>

<p>It becomes even more disgusting when Davey appears at the door, looking like a knight from the times of bastard feudalism: he's got a bucket and a mop in his hands, he even managed to pull on rubber gloves and some butcher or sanitary inspection workers' apron on his body and a positive smile on his face.</p>

<p>— Wipe it off your fucking mug, <em>sir David</em>, — Jim mutters again and grits his teeth as Norton undresses him, sits him in a special chair in the bathroom that was installed three weeks ago, and leaves to clean the room, while James takes a shower — so far he is more or less able to rinse himself, albeit without the same ease, unlike more serious water procedures, when Norton not only does not step away, but also immerses him in water, rubs him with a sponge, washes his hair and takes him out of the tub like a little child.</p>

<p>When he finishes tidying himself up, he quietly calls Davy, and he, instantly drawing in the doorway with a towel and a cane, waits for Griffith to dry off and wrap himself in a terry cloth of the hated blue color, and escorts him back into the room — the floor is already wiped and the bed linen is replaced, and there is so similar to the hospital smell of bleach that has long become a symbol of shame and self-loathing in the air.</p>

<p>Lying on the bed, Jim turns away from Davey and, pursing his lips, looks at the map of the starry sky, looking for the Alpha Centauri triangle with his eyes, while a friend, wearing a medical mask and sterile gloves, treats a foul-smelling ulcer: first he rinses it with an antibacterial solution to cleanse it from necrotic masses, then, using an antiseptic powder, imposes on his thigh a well-to-dry — what a word! —dressing.</p>

<p>   — Do you want to go for a walk? — asks Norton carelessly, as if nothing had happened while putting on tactical fleece socks on Griffith, — the weather is really nice.</p>

<p>— Oh my God, shut, please, your goddamn trap, — Jim exhales, still not looking at his friend, — well, what the hell "to go for a walk"? I'm swallowing my own bloody snorts, pneumonia is everything I need now,  or are you just fucked up to row the shit out from under me, and you want to get rid of me as soon as possible?</p>

<p> — Listen, — Davey abruptly gets up from his chair and glares at the sarcastically grinning James with a heavy and offended look, — you have become completely unbearable. I am glad that you can still walk, but to see how you're <em>walking away</em> ... Holy dicks of the underworld, I understand that you are dying, but being next to you ...</p>

<p>— Well then, move your ass  to the four winds! Or do you got the real juice here?!</p>

<p>— Oh, dear Lord, — Norton exhales, running his fingers through his hair, — give me the strength not to strangle you to...</p>

<p>— Of-fucking-course! It's like I don’t know what’s poking you into, that’s why you fail at all interviews. You just don't want to work,  you faggot!</p>

<p>— Don't make it up, eh! — Davey purses his lips, — why are you making a bull out of me in a corrida?</p>

<p>— It's <em>me</em> like a fucking horse in a circus, walking in a plague circle! Wake up, eat this, drink that, take pills, today in a sweater, don't smoke for an hour, go to see this doctor,  now an injection, don't go there, don't go here, I'll wash you, shut up and let me put yourself on, pills again, don't sleep, take a nap, another injection! Enough! — Griffith, who broke into a cry, chokes on his own scream and is already alone — Norton left, slamming the door — bends in half from an attack of suffocating cough, eerily ringing in his lungs: the sound is like someone slaps his palm on a rubber ball half-filled with water.</p>

<p>Contemplatively scrolling in his head all the mantras that he managed to remember in order to somehow pacify the attack, Griffith now and then strays into wedging thoughts. About himself — here he is, immeasurably lonely — (well, there is no one in the whole wide world, except Sherlock, who could understand him, and he is unlikely to understand too) half  a pile of poisoned meat, half  a man living as a hermit in his mutilated shell, and it is not known which part of him will go first when he exhales for the last time — in this senseless fight with cancer, which he lost. About the detective, which has become a huge area of his thoughts and feelings — how, a plague on both their houses, he can release Moriarty and at the same time endear Sherlock to himself and convincingly confess his love? About parents and a sister, who are probably very hard to lose their only son and brother — and thank God that they have Madison and Clemens: there will be someone to distract from, especially if after his death Evans has enough brains — and courage — to return to the bosom of the family. And, of course, he thinks about Davey — more precisely, about the fact that those people who most often forgive and endure the longest, usually leave unexpectedly and forever...  Although Norton is not one of them. He will return. He always returns.</p>

<p>Moreover, the time for the next medication will soon come.</p>

<p>And indeed: knocking softly, Davey opens the door and, seeing that James is awake, gloomily walks into the room and scans the first-aid kit with a gaze.</p>

<p>— It doesn't <em>poke me into anything</em>, you idiot, — he mutters, shuffling blisters with pills and rustling packs of disposable syringes tied with a red rubber band like cards — and you really never know what side you get: feeding drenzy, migraine or the desire to die, — I just don’t want to leave you all alone in this shit. Friends don't do that.</p>

<p>Feeling his cheeks redden with shame — after all, Norton really never left him, even during fights in high school or drinking in college, well, okay, he had had sex with  Janine (and the rest of his girlfriends), really, — Griffith nods shortly Davey even obediently allows him to pit in a rectal suppository him, which used to happen with battle, scandals and tantrums, often ending in broken objects, a couple of bruises and the forced surrender of one of them.</p>

<p>— And I want to be with you as long as you will let me, Jim, — continues Norton in a softer, even sadder voice, — and I have no idea how after your death I will come in this house or cemetery every year and remember how you read fairy tales, how we played cards and watched your favorite "Jaws" ... — stuttering, he squishes his nose and, wiping his sleeve and coughing, says quietly, looking away: — I'll just miss you <em>so</em> much, mate.</p>

<p> James, hastily blinking away his tears — after all, it's one thing to think about the imminent end on his own, and quite another — to hear from others how they will live without him and how his illness affects their lives — curls at mentioning <em>his and</em> <em>Milo's</em> film: memories, bitter and seemingly forgotten float to the surface like  drowned corpses, and fall on recent impressions, and all this mixes into a chaotic kaleidoscope of images that takes away hope and strength — the kiss is lost in the doctor's words, the intolerably pleasant heaviness in the groin dissolves into the sensation of the skin of Chloe's neck when he choked her, and the pack of photographs on its own record folds into a shoebox, on the lid of which, for some reason, not the name of the company is written, but a vague epitaph and the action figure of Darth Vader, and ...</p>

<p>Sobbing, Griffith turns away from Davy in one fell swoop, covers himself with a blanket and slides under the pillow, wrapping his arms around himself and trying to catch his breath and build a thought-flow into something more harmonious and consistent than a jumble of tormenting bits and pieces about one-way love — both old and new, pain and fear, that the disease took everything that was from him, but left a crutch in the form of a friend who did not abandon him in trouble, and he, James, instead of thanking and appreciating such a broad gesture that he did not deserve, fights and swears, and how disgusting and unfair it all is.</p>
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<p><strong>March 2010, Pembrokeshire, Maidenwells.</strong></p>

<p>— Uncle James, I suddenly remembered something that will make you fucking mad! — throws up Clem's disheveled head, from which Griffith, covering with paraffin the boats from the newspapers folded by his nieces, so that tomorrow they can launch them together along the first spring stream, as soon as the paper dries up, shudders and drops the brush to the floor.</p>

<p>— Er ... I'm already, love, — having decided that it is better to keep his mouth shut — you never know who she picked up from (although his family is relatively intelligent, but still quite simple, and sometimes an obscene word will slip through; however, with children, adults always try to follow what they say), James thanks Maddie, who raised the shaving brush and smiles at Clemens, expecting to continue.</p>

<p>— When we were in London with Milo, we saw an man very similar to you, only his leg did not hurt and he had curls! — exclaims the girl, and Griffith mechanically runs his hand over his head — sparse and soft hair that has just begun to grow back after a palliative course of chemotherapy, noting that Clem called Clavell by his first name, without the usual prefix "uncle", and is about to ask, and what, in fact, they were doing in London without their parents when Mike's bespectacled head appears in the doorway:</p>

<p>— Jim, the game is about to be on.</p>

<p>   — Yeah, thanks, — James carefully pours the solvent into the jar, sticks a brush into it and looks with an incinerating look at his son-in-law, who rushed to help him get up.</p>

<p>The game is pretty damn boring, as if the players all without exception took some muscle relaxant, so also the father throws a skeptical look at Griffith when he opens "Guinnes".</p>

<p>— Damn, what the fuck are you doing? — Bill exclaims and waves his arms, splashing beer at everyone and everything, when the Fulham goalkeeper misses the ball to the Juventus striker, — Schwarzer, are you a goalkeeper or a doorman? What is this "welcome, sir", you fucking summer resident ?!</p>

<p> — Yeah, I don’t envy the commentator, — Davey echoes him, crushing an empty can, — I'm even feel sorry for him 'cause he has to sit and describe this crap.</p>

<p>James, grinning, lounges on the couch and mindlessly watches the match until the break time, and they all — except for his father — go out for a smoke break, and James, leaning on the wall and constantly shaking off the ashes, listens to Mike, who has gone around the corner while mentioning Clavell's name:</p>

<p>— What are you talking about, Milo? Being together for a year or two is not an indicator at all, but staying  <em>by</em> when she is in postpartum depression, living in the understanding that you have two children, and there is nothing to eat. Don't compare your cock to a finger: it's one thing when you just meet with some kind of vagina-carrier  and take it to cafes, or even endure it on dates, and it's completely different to live together, sleep, eat and have common children with a woman that sometimes gets sick, cries, freaks out during periods, has its own secrets and generally experiences completely incomprehensible to the carl states, but still adore her — that's what love is, Miles, and not this banging at the door, which loses all meaning by the time of it discoveries. So if you do decide to publish a book with tips for a happy marriage, just the words "Don't marry with no dame!" and a couple hundred blank pages for drafts will be enough. And put in the heading "strong families as a result of a man's study of the phases of a woman's menstrual cycle."</p>

<p>Shrugging his shoulder, Jim sidelong glances at his son-in-law and enters the house, where his father, who has pretty much kicked and thoughtfully scratching the back of his head, is already waiting for him.</p>

<p>— Dad, what's up?</p>

<p>— Nothin', it's just a clicker ... — begins Mr. Griffith, but his son interrupts him, rolling his eyes:</p>

<p>— Damn, dad, if you will fuck it up again — I'll tie it to your phone with a tape, — James snorts irritably and, grabbing a packet of chips, flops onto the sofa, pulling out the ill-fated remote control from under the pillow.</p>

<p>— And now, in the last minutes of the second half, the England team snatches a point from the Italian team, and-a-and ...</p>

<p>— Jesus fucking Christ! — from the unexpected scream of the Scotsman, James shudders and pushes the sides of the plastic bag too much, from which the package breaks and spills its contents over the carpet:</p>

<p>— Well, what the hell, Chewie, why are you shouting like that, you're a bullshitter, fuck... — grunting, Jim drops on a healthy knee to collect potato slices, but Bill with a disgustingly guilty face is ahead of him, — fuck off, I wanted to  do iy myself...</p>

<p>— Well and good, love, — MacKensie sprinkles "Lay's" back on the carpet with a friendly laugh,  — any jolly for your lolly.</p>

<p>— Just go fuck yourself, — Griffith hisses benignly, sending the crumbly cheese dust on his fingertips back into the package.</p>

<p>— Girls, — shouts over brother Chloe, clutching Maddison's ears, — don't listen! Uncle James is very sick and therefore swears, now Uncle Davey will take him to the bedroom and make a little round so that he can get well soon.</p>

<p>— And when will he get well, Mom? — Clem asks, tugging at the bottom of her blouse with small anchors.</p>

<p>— By September, — Griffith spits out and, glancing viciously at his sister, immediately smiles affectionately at his niece, —just in time for the day you go to school, dear.</p>

<p>— Jim, — Chloe leans in and hisses right into his ear, — even the condom doesn't look as taut as your smile. I think you should go home.</p>
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<p><strong>April 2010, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong></p>

<p>All day — perhaps one of the longest in his life — James is on pins and needles: today is the Jim Moriarty's death anniversary, and it is possible that Sherlock may need his support; to be honest, Griffith, spitting on resentment and pride, even hopes for this a little and cannot help smiling when he returns from the garden, where they are — more precisely, Davey and his parents  ( James was just balancing on his good leg, cutting the branches of apple trees on his own, giving out instructions, having worn out everyone and everything (he even brought the patient Norton to the point that he simply poured black soil on the flower bed to hell and, turning the cart over, spread out in it like on a chaise longue) — they prepared a frontage and a veggie garden for planting, and sees a comfortably collapsed on the detective's bed.</p>

<p>— Hi, why are you lying around here like an amoeba?</p>

<p><em>— You're taking it too high,</em> — the double answers with a sleepy and tangled tongue, sitting down and running his fingers into disheveled curls, — <em>an amoeba has a genome exceeding seven hundred billion nucleotides, and a human does not even have three, which is invariable,  </em><em>it changes </em><em>in pinwings </em><em>only</em><em>...</em></p>

<p>— Sorry? <em>Pinwings</em>? — leaning his head forward, Griffith asks again and hardly lets himself laugh when Sherlock, wrinkling his forehead in anexcruciating thought, recalls how the name of these seabirds is pronounced correctly:</p>

<p><em>— The pinglings ... the pingwlings ...</em></p>

<p>— Morphine or cocaine?</p>

<p><em>— Moriarty.</em></p>

<p>— Holmes, are you drunk or something? — distinguishing the facial expressions and sign language atypical for a double, James asks and immediately begins to scroll in his head all the first aid methods for alcohol intoxication.</p>

<p><em>— I hate situations that I can't analyze</em>, — Sherlock mutters, brushing his unshaven cheek, — <em>I think yes,  but I'm not sure. But the thing  that I won is an indisputable fact.</em></p>

<p> — Who did you win? — perplexed and fearful that he could have listened to something, James asks and hands the double water and a pack of activated carbon.</p>

<p> <em>— Lestrade and Anderson</em>, — Holmes shrugs, twirling a bottle and pills in his hands, — <em>we've been competing who will drink whom.</em></p>

<p>— Your friends? — Griffith frowns a little: the painfully familiar surname is Andersen. Didn't he hear it by chance when he was lying in Barts for the first time ... And wasn't Sherlock talking to him then on the phone?</p>

<p>— <em>I don’t have  </em>friends, —  the doppelganger snorts contemptuously, —<em>Andersen is the only Scotland Yard employee who has never been able to find Wally.</em></p>

<p>— And Lestrade? — also something familiar, somehow connected with winter and children.</p>

<p><em>— Inspector with a bunch of compromising evidence where I am high, </em>— the detective waves off and gets up, swinging dangerously and grabbing the headboard so as not to fall.</p>

<p>— Did you catch your spins? — Jamie guesses, regretting that he does not have the former grace and agility to pick up the nodding and turning green Sherlock, — lie down on the floor to feel solid support,  it will feel better.</p>

<p>Bustling around Holmes — putting a waterproof diaper under his head so that he doesn't mess up the entire carpet with his vomit, sorting out in his memory how to irrigate detective's stomach and what injection to give if Sherlock loses consciousness — James tries to have a casual conversation so as not to let the double pass out:</p>

<p>— Bill also has a lot of compromising videos with me. Thank God he didn't upload 'em in YouTube. And what did you do while being high?</p>

<p>— <em>Well</em>, — swallowing, Sherlock grimaces, — <em>nothing supernatural. Danced naked. And yet, like uncle Rudy ...</em> — ending in mid-sentence, the detective makes a strange gurgling sound and pours vomit into the diaper.</p>

<p>— Well, that was tedious, — grins Griffith, sitting down next to him and handing Holmes a wet napkin to wipe his lips, — not even sign of imagination.</p>

<p>— <em>What the hell are you talking about</em>! — the detective spits out viscous saliva and rolls over onto his back, breathing heavily, — <em>in one of the rehabilitation centers a psychiatrist showed me the Rorschach test and was offended when I said that I just see spots.</em></p>

<p> — Are you complaining or bragging? Am I supposed  to admire you now?</p>

<p> — <em>Yes,</em> — Sherlock replies shortly, and his voice has such a note of complacency that James just doesn't want to talk to him anymore, let alone ask about Moriarty or confess his love.</p>
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<p><strong>April 2010, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong></p>

<p>In theory, the morning can be considered relatively successful: the bed is dry, the bandage is in its proper place, and the leg does not hurt so much, thank God — you can meet the new day with peace of mind, crookedly mirroring Davey's sugary smile, who came to inject drugs and take him to the dining room, so that he really ate, without tricks: since he found out that James, eating alone, in fact either feeds his portion to the cat or throws it away, it was decided at the family council: from now on, with normal health, the younger Griffith will eat with everyone — end of story.</p>

<p>James, stretching out his sore leg and resting his head on his hand, listens to the radio news breaking through the interference and sadly spanks his breakfast with a spoon — oatmeal in the water and chamomile tea instead of a cup of strong, sweet coffee and scrambled eggs with fried bacon, which he used to be — a hundred years ago — devoured both cheeks, not even thinking about the fact that such a diet will happily be deposited on the stomach and sides, and cholesterol plaques will settle in the vessels.</p>

<p>— Hell, why the goddamn porridge again? — snorts Griffith, glancing sullenly at the decanter with apple compote and a plate with lush pancakes intended for the rest of the household — it smells pretty tasty, but he still feels a little sick from the drugs, going down the stairs and the smell of food, so also the sounds — chewing, clanging cutlery and squelching — irritate him  gruesomely so much that he wants to pull the tablecloth to hell, so that the fragments of the dishes rain down on the floor, and the kettle overturning in a somersault doused everyone ...</p>

<p>— James, stop cursing and eat, — his father says, spreading jam on the toast.</p>

<p>— I'm fed up with this fucking porridge, — Jim continues, dropping on the remark and pushes the clay bowl away from him, — and I'm fucking fed up with you.</p>

<p><em>— James.</em></p>

<p>He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to calm down, and for a split second he feels terribly clear pain from metastases in every organ, from bursting in the lungs and dull in the heart to stabbing in the bladder and similar to diffuse peritonitis in the abdominal cavity.</p>

<p>— Okay, I'm sick and tired.  Or nervous and annoyed. Extremely. Devastatingly. Piss off the fu... I mean,  go away.</p>

<p>— You didn’t eat all day yesterday, and you didn’t have dinner the day before yesterday. Either shut up and eat, or I'll put you a stomach tube, — Davy says sternly, shifting the jam from the jar to the saucer.</p>

<p>— I'm not hungry. Go to hell.</p>

<p>— Okay, sonny boy, you eat when you want ... — the mother begins, but stops talking, it is only necessary for Norton to make a strange and light gesture, and James intuitively guesses that he means something like “don’t fuss, Norton will figure it out right now.”</p>

<p>— That doesn't break any bloody ice with me, James. Shut up and eat your goddamn meal.</p>

<p>— This is a free country, and everyone can send anyone they want in any three letters, so <em>go to hell,</em> — angry that relatives and friends are doing something behind his back, as if he had already been written off — <em>is the chair empty? It the sword unswayed? Is the king dead?</em> — Griffith hisses and, biting his lip, rests with one hand on the table and the other on a balancing cane to get up, but Davey abruptly presses on his shoulder, forcing him to sink back into the chair.</p>

<p>— Sit down and eat your porridge, you goddamn dick!</p>

<p>—<em> Fuck you</em>! — taking a knife lying on a cutting board for bread, James plunges the blade into Norton's neck — a stream of blood dilutes the dull gray-beige porridge with berry jam — then grabs him by the hair and sharply lowers him against the corner of the tabletop, harder and harder with each blow — David's blood is now everywhere: on tablecloths, on plates, in cups, on clothes, on the floor, on the walls ...</p>

<p>— Davey, you don't need to bring up my son, — the mother says pitifully, and, apparently, only from the fact that tears are welling up in her eyes, Norton removes his hand and is going to say something, but frowns and shakes his head, looking gloomily at the strolling away from a friend's kitchen.</p>

<p>The resentment that life among the household passes by Jim, as if he is already dead, overwhelms him, and Griffith locks himself in the room and, having removed the latch from the cat's door safety catch, lies down on the bed and as usual, almost effortlessly, throws himself to the only place where he is still capable of at least <em>something</em>.</p>

<p>Sitting on hunkers, Jim thoughtlessly looks at the piece of metal, wandering his gaze over the surface like a microbe looking for a tiny loophole, eager to quickly enter the body. Reaching out to the cold iron, Griffith closes his eyes and traces his fingers across the steel surface, noting every roughness, until he reaches the handle and gropes for a small box with notches — as it turns out, a lock with a customizable six two-digit number combination. And where did it come from? James is ready to eat his boots that it was not here before.</p>

<p>Having fished out a stethoscope from some shelf — during his absence, the cabinets again turned out to be crammed with all kinds of garbage in a chaotic manner — Jim began to select the code, carefully listening to the quiet clicks and simultaneously catching Moriarty's indistinct muttering.</p>

<p>It is difficult to say exactly how much Griffith suffered with the selection of numbers: after all, the number of options is colossal and the complexity of decoding can only be compared with the “enigma”, and even then with a big stretch — there were still no hints, but there were no clues.</p>

<p>— Jesus, Jim, help me, — Griffith whispers to himself, poking around the keyhole with a screwdriver and hoping to break the door without using the code, — help and give him to me, you don't need him, you're dead, you died long ago, and I am still alive, give him to me at least for the time that is left to me. Open the door. I'm begging you.</p>

<p><em>— And why do you all love so much so that everything is smart? That's the least of all I've met smart people who would also be happy,</em> — there is an unkind half-sigh—half-laugh from the other side, and James shies away from Moriarty's powerful blow, as if he smashed with a sledgehammer on the strong metal separating him from the inner world of Sherlock, and finds himself on his own bed in the company of Holmes gazing at him, twirling a harp from Altai in his fingers.</p>

<p><em>— What is this?</em></p>

<p>— Shamanic musical instrument, — Griffith stretches out his hand to the double to pass the piece of iron, and the detective, diligently avoiding tactile contact, puts the hand—forged instrument in his palm, — I've ordered it from Russia.</p>

<p>Pressing the familiar clanking iron to his mouth, Jim gently tugs at the tongue to make sure that everything is correct and a bruise on the corner of his mouth will not appear, and, slightly out of tune with the karkhiraa-exhalation, plays a simple motive.</p>

<p>— <em>More</em>.</p>

<p>Jamie grips the instrument with his lips again, changes the angle of the hand to the position of the top and, tightly holding back the part where the ring goes into the decks, with a snap flick imitates tap dancing Sherlock processes the bow with rosin, smiling gently.</p>

<p>— Why're you grinnin'? — Griffith grumbles, putting the jaw's harp in a wooden stand with a neatly carved face of an ancient idol, which he made himself a hundred years ago, — I can bet my sweet life  that your papá — Seiger, am I  right? — more than once said to himself that it would be better if he bought you paints or plasticine while you were scraping out a scales on a violin.</p>

<p>Seeing the strange expression on Sherlock's face, James realizes that he either blurted out stupidity, or touched the double for the living, and the feeling of guilt painfully gives in to the already suffering limb.</p>

<p>— Sherlock, maybe you can play for me? — Griffith asks timidly, taking a sip of painkiller from a bottle and not really daring to raise his head and look the detective in the eyes.</p>

<p>— <em>For example?</em> — Holmes's voice sounds quiet and calm, which means that he was definitely not offended by Jamie, but simply mired in his own thoughts.</p>

<p>— Whatever, just play, — James shrugs his shoulders and once again runs his tongue over his bitter lips, trying to get rid of the unpleasant burning sensation of morphine, caught in the cracks and small ulcers in the corners of the mouth, and turns over on his left side.</p>

<p>Sherlock hesitates a little before picking up the violin and, frowning, begins to move his bow along the strings, extracting from the instrument a simple, uneven, but harmonious melody that Griffith has never heard — a slow, drawn-out whiny, from which the bends of his elbows begin to itch , and goosebumps run down the back.</p>

<p>Griffith clenches his teeth and clenches his fists so as not to blurt out the utterly gay and dramatic: "I practically forget that I am sick when you play", but pulls himself together and listens to the crying overflow of notes, allowing the mixture of music and medicine to hug him and rock half-asleep waves.</p>
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<p><strong>May 2010, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong></p>

<p>Moriarty’s words that one need to be simpler alarms James somehow: a vague feeling that Mycroft is not particularly involved in all these mortsafes and Shakespearean passions doesn’t leave him, and the whole matter is limited solely to the tricks of the villain-consultant and the confusion of Sherlock, absolutely uncapable for love — despite all his admonitions, Griffith is sure that this feeling is terra incognita for a detective, which, due to his dislike of ignorance of something one hundred percent, is afraid and builds an unconvincing psychological defense in the form of a contemptuous attitude towards any sentiments , and this autistic attitude is so deeply ingrained in his entire being that Sherlock does not let himself into a normal life.</p>

<p>At one of the golden hours, James is struck by a thought — so simple that it can be considered ingenious — why not just descend into the wilds of the darknet and find Moriarty's blog?</p>

<p>Periodically sipping too strong coffee from a cup — lately he has been chopping it off for almost a day without a break from the desire to sleep — Griffith diligently hacks into servers, not being afraid to incriminate himself, and as a result, he still stumbles upon what he has been looking for for so long — a nondescript blog arsmoriendiblog.co.uk with restricted access. Having turned off the antivirus program that screamed about the threat of infection, James registers on the site, but, shuddering — it seems that one of the parents dropped the pan in the kitchen — presses not the input line under the authentication code, but the picture itself, and he is thrown to a blank page with ip 142.943. 0624.046. Something painfully familiar ...</p>

<p>Frowning, Griffith tries hard to remember where he saw these numbers before, and almost slaps his forehead: these are the coordinates of Proxima Centauri!</p>

<p>Not remembering himself with joy and insight, Jamie almost at a run hurls his consciousness into the Halls of Sherlock and enters the code — and the click of the opened lock sounds to him like an explosion of fireworks: unbearably loud, spreading with a booming echo of delight and anticipation throughout his body when he, having overcome the notorious eight steps and bypassing the kitchen cluttered with anything and a small corridor, he finds himself in the detective's bedroom. Slightly crawling on the soft carpet and trying not to step on the blanket casually thrown on the floor, Griffith curiously examines the situation: two dressers, a floor lamp, a double bed, a wardrobe and a bookcase, the periodic system of Mendeleev and a first-level judo certificate written out in the name of Holmes, while behind the ticking of the clock, the hum of electricity and the rustle of the wind that harasses the curtain, he does not hear the quiet creak of the floorboards and the rustle just outside the door.</p>

<p>Opening it with a jerk— James already knows what (or rather, who) he will see on the opposite end of the kitchen — he fearlessly goes straight into the living room.</p>

<p><em>— Oh my, you did it,</em> — says sitting crosslegged Moriarty in surprise, wrapped in a straitjacket, and nods in greeting, from which the chain on his neck tinkles lightly, even melodiously, — <em>very clever, awfully clever. </em></p>

<p>— Well, you refused to help me, — shrugs Griffith and with a long-forgotten agility, as if there was no question of any illness in the Mind Palace, sits down next to him, — I listened to Sherlock's version. Now I would not mind getting to know yours. About your past, present ... Why Mycroft imprisoned you in a mortise safe that <em>I </em>am the <em>only one </em>who could penetrate in. I can't be fucking Neo at your party, can I?</p>

<p><em>— This fagot snowman could never overtake me and never can, the flight level is not the same, </em>— smiles Moriarty, and this smile makes Jim want to howl with horror: there is something eerie in this look, facial expressions and gestures — if he was King or Lovecraft, then the most creepy monsters would have the features, habits and voice of a villain-consultant.</p>

<p>— What do you want? Break free? Resurrect?</p>

<p><em>— No, why? It’s good for me here,</em> — the underworld Napoleon shrugs the shoulders, — <em>it is very convenient to follow your goal from here.</em></p>

<p>— Which one?</p>

<p><em>— I told you, but did you listen</em>? — repeats the already familiar phrase Moriarty and, rolling his eyes, sighs picturesquely, evading the answer, — <em>oh, you're so vacant.</em></p>

<p>— I'll do whatever you want, just give him to me, please. At least for the time that I have left.</p>

<p>— <em>Boring</em>, — a universal emptiness freezes in the eyes of the professor as if behind them there is not a hint of a brain as such ...</p>

<p><em>... You blew your own brains out, I saw you die, why aren't you dead?...</em></p>

<p>— <em>What do you think, in order to gain someone's power, you must definitely devour his flesh, or ... is it enough to bathe in his blood</em>? — a demonic gaze, flowing through the veins, which reflects millions of years, going apart with a carefree intonation, glares into Griffith.</p>

<p>— I don't care much about your confrontation between Joker and Batman, James, — Griffith withstands psychological attack, — you're just having fun, right?</p>

<p><em>— He has much more problems with me dead than alive, </em>— the Irishman grins, — <em>it is kinda more sexy in being a kind of poison.</em></p>

<p>— Okay, I got it, — sighing, Jim gets up and walks to the door, — I won't tell him the code. I can’t deny myself the pleasure to deny the pleasure to you.</p>

<p>Frightened and shocked, not expecting such an answer, Moriarty flinches and freezes, like a paused video — and bursts into hysterical laughter:</p>

<p>—<em>You? Will not tell 'im</em>?! — he shouts through uncontrollable, painful laughter, — <em>you are the same attention whore as the object of your adoration, honey! Come on, try it, and I'll watch you dancing when Sherley throws you in the trash like a used condom!</em></p>

<p>— He's not like that.</p>

<p>— <em>Oh, yes, you know him like the back of your hand</em>, — wiping his nose and watery eyes on his shoulder, James snorts sarcastically, — <em>but do you</em> <em>know</em> him<em>, or just the tip of the iceberg that he showed you?</em></p>

<p>— I can say the same about you, <em>honey</em>, — Griffith retorts evilly, — you're fucking Jack Napier, a man without the past! Were you really born on the 5th of April of the seventy-sixth year? James Moriarty, Richard Brooke, John Doe — what is your real name, or are you just an orphan foundling without kith or kin? Is it true that you have two brothers — the colonel and the head of the railway station?</p>

<p>— <em>Don't you even </em>try<em> to play truth or dare with me, kid</em>, — rising to his feet, Moriarty approaches him as far as the chain allows, almost close, pouring  steam of halitosis and an unwashed body, — <em>because I’ll trample you at blink of an eye and  piss on your corpse. And Sherlock will do the same. And then we'll have sex while looking at the reflection of your tear-covered face in the mirror. Do you know how he' behaves between the sheets</em>? — languidly closing his eyes and licking his lips, the Irishman wriggles sweetly, almost vibrates, as if scrolling through their private meetings in his head, — <em>you don't. And you never will.</em></p>

<p>— He didn't jump, did he? — having approached the interlocutor in the same way — close all the dangerous gloss of the villain-consultant disappears, because you can see an ugly papilloma on the lower left eyelid, dirt stuck in the bristles and hardened eye mucus; at such a distance, Napoleon of the underworld looks just like a mad bum, pathetic and helpless — James hangs over Jim, since the difference in height is almost ten inches — he did not play by your rules. He won. You sacrificed your life to win, but he <em>didn't jump</em>.</p>

<p>—<em>What made you so fearless, darling?</em></p>

<p>— You just don't seem frightening at all,  you fucking Mad Hatter.</p>

<p>With a victorious laugh, Griffith returns to the kitchen, reveling in the bewilderment on the Irishman's face with sadistic pleasure, and goes downstairs, wondering whether to leave the door open and release this unfinished Joker free, thereby giving Holmes a surprise, but selfishly decides to indicate his superiority and power over entrance, double and his fate as such and lies down on his bed, savoring the anticipation.</p>

<p>Spreading on the mattress and looking straight out the window — he took off the curtains in the morning so that nothing would interfere with looking at the meteor shower — James sees not falling stars, but something completely different: here comes Sherlock — as always, sad and distressed for his deceased "lover " and unconvincingly despising humanity, which he learned from Moriarty and which he hated again after his death — and Griffith says the cherished twelve numbers, unlocks the door, takes Sherlock's hand and escorts him into a mental dungeon, from which the detective's eyes widen reverently, and his mouth opens up in an elusive smile a little, as if a detective is unexpectedly on the trail, and he, throwing a piece of paper with a code, an expensive coat and a villain-consultant to the devil's mother, hugs the double to himself and, muttering something sweet and apologetic, covers his haggard face with short ones, with abrupt kisses — Sherlock's lips are exactly soft and slightly rough, smelling tobacco and Korean toothpaste with some kind of spices, like turmeric and bamboo salt — which become more and more lingering, while his warm hands slide under the washed-out shirt and touch the protruding ribs ...</p>

<p>James lowers his eyelids, throws his head back on the pillow and, throwing the blanket aside, slightly spreads his knees so that he can touch himself unhindered, sinking into illusion and imagining how Holmes, casting a slightly blurred look of his dilated pupils at him, licks off the beads of sweat that have emerged above his upper lip, throws his Jim's good leg on his shoulder and kisses the inner side of the thighs, slightly tickling the curled scrotum with his hair and touching the sluggishly raised penis — the erection is weak, not at all what Griffith remembers it just a few years ago, but the fingertips go a little numb, losing the sharpness of the sense of touch when he runs his hands into the twin's dark chocolate curls, but gradually the blood flow to the penis makes him stand up as expected, and Jamie even feels the seemingly forgotten pain of really strong arousal for a long time — this tension of the skin that opened the crimson head, from which it is exhausting for a long time, drop by drop, grease comes out — and stifled sighs when the detective's tongue It passes through the outer opening of the urethra, and the lower teeth are surprisingly cool, as if the detective rolls in his mouth not only the reproductive organ of the double, but also an ice cube — touch the bridle.</p>

<p>Sherlock sucks quite confidently and technically, albeit completely silently, unlike porn films, of which James has watched more than one hundred in his life, but it doesn't matter at all: the feeling of a member between Holmes's slimy tongue and ribbed palate is so unusual, so forgotten and correct, clashes with the sounds of a violin playing in the backyards of consciousness and juicy slaps of flesh on flesh, and Griffith, biting his lip and dissolving in fantasy, spits on his hand and launches it between his legs — where he pulls and whines so unbearably, but as soon as he touches the instantly squeezed anus, everything is crossed out by the recollection of a recent day that has surfaced like the corpse of a drowned man:</p>

<p>Davey, having given an injection, began to help him change his clothes and, scanning his friend's body with a penetrating glance, palpated his stomach and with a disgusting understanding grunt disappeared into the bathroom.</p>

<p>— No fucking way! — seeing a syringe and a jar of petroleum jelly in Norton's hands, James even makes an attempt to crawl away and backs away to the wall, from which a friend puts a supposedly casual smile on his face — the cute bastard always smiles, even when he changes his worn diapers and stained clothes or wipes his butt, as if he has — even though he swears and swears that it is not so — some strange obsessive—compulsive syndrome or some other deviation. Well, or Davy just likes having access to Griffith's ass as such.</p>

<p>— If you don’t want an enema, be so kind as to drink more, — Norton says calmly, scooping up the ointment and distributing it over the tip of a rubber bulb — again blue, damn 'em all! — at least a liter per day.</p>

<p>— I’m sick, —  James snorts, rolling his eyes, and grimaces, feeling the urge to gag — remember shit, here it is, — piss off.</p>

<p>— Then shut up and get your ass.</p>

<p>— Fuck you, — Griffith purses his lips and strokes the polished handle of his cane with his palm, preparing to drive her over this annoying hen, in case of anything, — give it to me! I am not a Tyrannosaurus Rex and can do it myself.</p>

<p>— Maybe we can avoid this shit, can we? — barely hiding irritation, retorts Norton, — Jesus, Jim, don’t be such an infantile moron. It's embarrassing, but okay. If it is such a fucking problem for you,  we can just call the nurse from the social department.</p>

<p>— Yeah, damn it, let's better call the whole brigade at once, so that at the same time they jerk off my dick and brush my teeth.</p>

<p>— Just shut up and do what I ask you to, <em>please</em>.</p>

<p>— <em>Fuck you</em>! — Jim squeals and, without giving himself an account, stamps a metal cane right in his friend's face — a breaking bone crunches like carrots on his teeth, — you are the <em>nurse</em> here ...</p>

<p>Throwing off the haze and poking annoyedly — damn it, even jerking off — and even then it does not work, Griffith rakes a few pillows under his back and, having arranged a laptop on his feet, half—thoughtlessly prowls around the Internet under the drawn—out howl of Nana, who is worried in the kennel.</p>
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<p><strong>May 2010, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong></p>

<p>Probably, this will be the best day in James' life, who cherishes a sweet anticipation: a little more — and he gently takes Sherlock by the hand and, opening the door, will go up with him to the second floor along seventeen steps to the bedbug littered with rubbish, which the detective calls home, take him past the refrigerator, in which someone's think tank is kept — all problems need to be solved with a cool head — and will hand it over to Moriarty from hand to hand, and if Griffith is lucky, the villain—consultant will not be shy and honestly answer that he needs Holmes like a hole in the head, and James will embrace a double, becoming a nanny for his grief, and then, and then...</p>

<p>He can hardly restrain a happy smile as soon as he notices the figure of Sherlock looming on the pathway leaving in the forest illuminated by the crimson sunset, contrasting against the background of a strange, unnaturally bright light drowning in the crowns of blossoming apple trees and plums: now he will come, get what is so wanted and what he dreamed of for so long, and will duly express gratitude to James, who returned him a loved one — Holmes, of course, is still a dry old stick, but he definitely should have a conscience, as well as a sense of responsibility.</p>

<p>Trying not to betray himself and tame his nervousness, Griffith drinks a sedative ahead of time and listens to the quiet steps of his double, hiding a piece of paper with the coveted code in his pocket trousers.</p>

<p>When Sherlock walks in, Jim is the only one who says hello; the detective silently throws his coat on the floor, unbuttons his jacket and sits down in his favorite chair and, folding his hands in a prayer gesture, looks thoughtfully and somewhat disoriented somewhere over Griffith's shoulder.</p>

<p>— Will you remain silent or...? — unable to endure the tense silence any longer, asks Griffith.</p>

<p><em>— Sometimes I don't talk for days on end</em>, — Holmes says, without changing his posture or aloof expression on his face.</p>

<p>— Is it because there were problems with diction in childhood? — James asks softly, already realizing that the conversation is not going well, but hesitating to reveal his cards and please Sherlock.</p>

<p>— <em>No, why</em>? — Holmes finally condescends to turn his gaze to Griffith.</p>

<p>— So I'm right if you answer a question with a question.</p>

<p><em>— I’m not a Jew, —</em> the detective retorts sarcastically, sniffing, — <em>so not anywhere near.</em></p>

<p>— Then say "penguin,” — Jamie smirks, responding with causticity to the taunt.</p>

<p>— <em>Shut up</em>, — Holmes hisses, and the May evening again plunges into silence, diluted only by the chirping of cicadas and the disgusting rubbing of some insect that has flown into the room against the window; for a while he sits, diligently not noticing the irritant, until he can not stand it and goes to the curtains.</p>

<p><em>— What do we know about melolontha, Jamie?</em></p>

<p>— They’re mostly Taurus, — Griffith chuckles and, pulling out a gift box with whiskey and glasses from a stash in a dresser, puts it on the desk, and then returns back to the bunk; Sherlock, having approached Jim's workplace, thoughtfully watches how the beast runs over his wrists — he also heard that this is not a very good omen. And there was some crap about dung-chafers and May beetles, something about betrayal in the Bible.</p>

<p>— <em>Oh</em>, — Holmes sustains indifferently, sends the insect into the space of the room with a click and pours himself "Jack Daniel's", but does not drink it, but simply twirls the highball in his hands, — <em>and melolontha and araneus belong to the same type.</em></p>

<p>In the silence that reigned — thick and tense like the air before a thunderstorm — Griffith, leaning against the head of the bed, looks at the mask of equanimity on the double's face, through which inhuman melancholy, fatigue, grief and total disappointment cuts through — apparently, the detective hoped that James would open the door for the anniversary of Moriarty; Sherlock's mourning weighs on James no less than the realization of his own death, and — after all, what has he to lose? — and in a desperate desire to please the detective mired in sorrow, he nevertheless decides to hand over the cards, cherishing in his soul faith in the fulfillment of his cherished dream, which has become an obsession:</p>

<p><strike><em>— Make us whole.</em></strike></p>

<p>— I found it, Sherlock.</p>

<p>The detective looks at Jamie in bewilderment: instantly constricted pupils and a sharp, like a spasm, jerk of the neck muscles — and they magically find themselves in front of the black door, and Griffith, with a frozen and hopeful heart, enters the coordinates — suddenly he wanted the code to be wrong , even felt a little uneasy from the fact that this thought came into his head at all — he opens the door and, ahead of the detective, enters hallway 221-B, but stumbles over the threshold and miraculously does not fall, finding support — while Sherlock does not even bother to reach out and catch the double, muttering dismissively:</p>

<p><em>— Not now.</em></p>

<p>This moronic "not now" painfully squeezes the very being of Griffith, but he does not utter a word, fearing to ruin the moment, and only smiles affably and encouragingly, with difficulty rising to the second floor, while Holmes, looking around lost recognizing his own apartment, he walks up the steps after him, and as soon as he sees Moriarty, wrapped in a straitjacket, raises his head, and his face lights up with a mad and joyful grin, something jitters deep inside, and his head starts spinning with apprehension, and the ground completely disappears from under his feet when Sherlock takes his thirteen steps, accelerating with each movement, without even turning his face in the direction of the double, casually throws over his shoulder:</p>

<p><em>— Thanks, Jamie! Have a nice terminal cancer!</em></p>

<p>— But ... — the heart skips a couple of beats, and before the eyes darkens: is it really all really cut off <em>like this</em>?</p>

<p>—<em> Bye-bye!</em> — at the same time as Holmes rushes to James, Griffith is thrown out of the Mind Palace, like the sea throws a dead whale onto land.</p>
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<p><strong>May 2010, Pembrokeshire, Stackpole.</strong></p>

<p>Every now and then James stumbles over his own feet and thoughts, swallowing dust and coughing it up, gasping, choking without Sherlock. He tries to see him in the mirror that he carries with him in his pocket and looks at the reflection at any opportunity, to hear his intonations in his own voice, talking aloud now to him, now to himself, to find him in the desert of the subconscious, devoured by pain and orphanhood, but the curly-haired bastard escapes every time, drips like a water through shaking fingers — does not answer letters, does not pick up the phone, does not respond to a mental call ... As if the detective was not joking then, a year ago, and really threw out the double like an empty pack of cigarettes ...</p>

<p>And he wants desperately, till the physically pain to shout in hot blood: “fuck you, Sherlock Holmes, you are not worth it! You can't cost that much! Don't need you! I do not want you!"</p>

<p>... But he <em>can't</em>: an exhausted throat can only faintly, pitifully wheeze, and James, hating and loving a double, tries to come up with at least some kind of excuse for him, straining and proceeding with mental pain - so strong that he practically does not notice the itching burning sensation in his body, tormented by the disease.</p>

<p>Previously, he was afraid of the ever-worsening dependence on morphine and his own helplessness, and, in fact, now it is a proper time to end this — it is highly unlikely that Jim will miss something important or interesting if he lives the time allotted by fate until the end, when the dull and blurred pain is illuminated by a real fire in a soul that will crave only an anesthetic, and he will leave this mortal world, looking at him with pitying glances from his family and friends, but now ... He is tired of being sick. And living without love.</p>

<p>It’s easy to leave when one don’t love anyone, but his parents have probably already accepted, and Holmes… He doesn’t need Griffith, just as Moriarty doesn’t need him. That's life. Even funny.</p>

<p>Looking at his watch — Davy has just left and will be back no earlier than an hour later — James goes down to the kitchen, which still has the aroma of apple pies that his mother had baked since the morning "for later" with bones, returns to himself and locks the door from the inside, after which he sits down at the table and turns on "That's life" by Frank Sinatra.</p>

<p>— "<em>That's life, that's li-ife, that's what all the people say, you're riding high in April, shot down in May"</em> ... — dangling his good leg and trying to calm his trembling hands, Jim does a decent a sip of scotch tape, he scrupulously cuts the apples into slices and pours the drop-shaped brown nucleoli onto a plate, and from it onto the scales.</p>

<p><em>"Apple seeds contain cyanogenic glycosides, and sixty grams is enough to cause fatal poisoning."</em></p>

<p>— Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you very fucking much, — Griffith says quietly, washing down the seeds and sleeping pills — almost three blisters in one fell swoop — bitter water with a salty taste of algae and, after draining a glass of whiskey, gets up to walk to bed.</p>

<p><em>— "I said that's life, that's li-ife, and as funny as it may seem, some people get their kicks stomping on a dream"... </em></p>

<p>Spreading right on the worn, but still soft carpet, James falls into the darkness, similar to an alarmed flock of rooks and the deep sea on an autumn night, and for some reason nearby, on the sand, lies the translucent Holmes, and the two of them wander their gaze along the coast, flooded with the unfaithful moonlight, the songs of whales and the soft splash of swelling waves, when these gigantic creatures rise up to take a breath and again hide in the salt abyss ...</p>

<p>... He pushes forward through a narrow space, pushes his way, like Andy Dufrein through the sewer — either through a pipe, or through a very narrow tunnel, completely pierced with metal rods, but for some reason there was no pain: only the weight of his own body pushes James against the cold, rough concrete, and dragging him forward is as hard as dragging a sack of potatoes, but there is no turning back: something — no, <em>someone</em> — blocks the way — <em>at some point Robert  in a desperate attempt to escape from the trap of a too narrow manhole in the cave, twists his shoulders, which makes him completely stuck and wheezes:</em></p>

<p><em>— Crawl.</em></p>

<p>Stop. If Rob is here, then Griffith died too? ...</p>

<p><em>— "I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king"...</em></p>

<p><em>... Hell no, Zara called almost the entire detachment, the camp commander and the rescue service — it somehow immediately felt better, but through the quiet groan of deliverance and "</em>I've been up and down and over and out and I know one thing"<em> he begins to feel a specific smell — the smell of a doctor tinkling with a dropper and muttering under his breath:</em></p>

<p>— Oh, boy, what are you doing? — the needle sticks into the bend of the elbow, which looks like a sieve from pricks, and from it unpleasant warmth spills over the body, turning into heat, — let's not on my shift, eh? — and your hands are so warm, soft, — come on, sonny, wait.</p>

<p><em>... — Uncle James, wait ...</em></p>

<p>  — What happened? — another voice cut in, but Griffith, barely keeping his mind, does not have time to recognize him.</p>

<p>— You tell me! —  Davey hisses — Jim will definitely not confuse his voice with anyone else, — half an hour ago he was looking at me, and suddenly stopped responding to my speech, and then he yelled and began to convulse like an epileptic!</p>

<p>— Excessive use of morphine-containing drugs most likely caused minor cognitive impairments, but the tumor may have metastasized to the brain — it is impossible to say for sure without an MRI ...</p>

<p>— <em>Minor</em>? Are you fucking mental? Here, here you go, just read it! — the rustle sounds like a swift scrolling of a notebook covered up and down, — but he talks to himself, calling himself Sherlock, and now he also decided to poison himself because of him, and you call this "<em>minor cognitive impairments</em>"? You mean it is  necessary to put him in an asylum but not in a hospital?!</p>

<p>Griffith does not hear the doctor's answer, drowning in a viscous jelly — he does not feel the weight, and his lungs do not burn so much from the boiled mess of malignant cells and heartbeats — only his hands shake slightly and rub their wrists against the pelvic bones, and the eyelashes tremble from the songs of whales, and the back is pleasant and easy, like a white feather, falls on ...</p>

<p>... <em>They're putting me down too now. It's no fun, is it</em>? ..</p>

<p>... and quieter and quieter and quieter ...</p>

<p><em>— Redbe-e-e-eard ...</em></p>

<p>…What? What's happening? What happened?</p>

<p>... Feelings return.</p>

<p>Everything around is broken, everything rumbles and crushes like a too small bathing cap and explosions of faulty fireworks when an unknown force pulls James out and pulls him through the eye of a needle, and the unbearably bright light of an ominous eye is about to hit his eyes, which opens wide as she goes into the forest path, and it begins ...</p>

<p>... No, no, I don't want to ...</p>

<p>… It's like being born back — <em>what will happen after death? The same that was before birth</em> — but heaven seems to want to pluck him from its merciful womb, and the sharp stabbing pain in the bloody and fetid mess of what used to be his leg returns as an angry swarm of bees and tears the flesh to shreds, forcing shout…</p>

<p>... So that's why newborns announce the walls with heart-rending screams ...</p>

<p>... Mom? Mom, where are you? I want handles. I want a bottle. — <em>Mom closed the window</em>. — Oh, mommy, sing me that lullaby, comb my hair — <em>you're bald, Jamie</em>! — and play with my fingers in the "rabbit": then I will fall asleep, fall asleep and not go anywhere, and will stay with you forever ... come on, please — <em>hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top, when the wind blows the cart'll rock</em> — mom, please — <em>when the bough breaks the cart will fall, down will come baby, cart and all </em>— mom! I do not want!</p>

<p> ... Inhale. Exhale. Everything burns, blazes and rattles, the throat is twitching with bile, and before his eyes there are three: Holmes, Moriarty and that strange man, whom he always sees from the back and even gives him a name, more precisely, two, calling him either Moses or Jacob — according to knee in the water.</p>

<p><em>...The rocking of the boat in the night, distant bursts and a formidable order not to make noise and stand still, when the boat starts to swing and even a slight tapping is heard, which one wants to look at, it bends down ... And again. The memory crawls in a circle, like a worn-out record — oh how he wish to find meaning in it ... or at least visual images, but it was </em>so<em> dark there...</em></p>

<p>But here uninvited sounds interfere — strange, inappropriate, mechanical: hush—psst ... hush—psst ... From time to time they stop. From time to time, he stops <em>himself</em>, and after several monotonous cycles, the sense of touch crashes into consciousness.</p>

<p>How? What for? Why was he ripped back?</p>

<p>Opening his eyes, Jim sees above him a sterile white ceiling without a single crack, with elongated fluorescent lamps, illuminating the intensive care ward with a cold light, from which the skin of his hands — the only thing he sees from his body, entwined with tubes and wires — seems cyanotic, like at the dead one. Griffith turns his head to the sides, which makes the mask tapes painfully dig into his cheekbones to look at the two droppers with saline and, along the way, morphine, the oxygen supply machine — it was his rustling that woke Jamie up — and the squeaky cardiogram screen; chilly shivering — a weak movement is given by a cut in the urethra from a catheter inserted into it — it bends numb arms, from which the needles in the wrists and elbows painfully dig into the arteries.</p>
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